Date: Mon, 17 Dec 2001 17:30:39
From: Ganymede
Subject: Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy Act IV

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT IV, 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.



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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 IV, by Ganymede

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



OVERTURE

Alesha danced. For a week he had danced with feet that were
lighter than ever before. He was buoyant, ebullient, all but
laughing as he moved back and forth across the polished hardwood
floor. His jubilant mood showed. He leaped higher than seemed
possible, so high that he found himself imaging at least for a
moment that he was Nureyev, flying until gravity pulled him down.
However, that fleeting contact with his feet was like the recoil
of a powerful spring. His muscles contracted instantly, powering
his body forward in a springing leap, a leap that any other
person would require a trampoline to do.

His eyes followed his every movement in the full-length
mirror with what could only be called hypercritical assessment.
Alesha did not consider himself beautiful, yet even he was
impressed by the reflection. It was not narcissistic. His ego had
been suppressed long ago. He simply appreciated the lithe body
and movements of a very graceful dancer. His energy was renewed.

And yet, even as he accomplished the hitherto impossible,
his mind churned, revisiting thoughts and dreams that had claimed
possession of his mind. So much had changed during the week,
although on the surface, at least to Alesha Yaroshenko, his life
still seemed very ordinary. Each day was almost exactly the same,
a constant repetition like the dance steps he had to learn.

He awoke, usually without the help of an alarm clock,
although Peters used the intercom from the kitchen to make
certain he was up. He dressed quickly before going downstairs to
eat a sparse breakfast of bran and skim milk, a piece of fruit-
more often Hawaiian pineapple since he had moved into the house
on 78th Street. It was much tastier than the pale yellow chunks
that came out of a can. If he was lucky, he did not have to rush
his breakfast before Dewon came in to fetch him for the drive to
school.

For some strange reason, although he was slowly beginning to
understand why, he always felt happy if Mr. Beaufort was there
before him, his head lowered, reading the New York Times. Then,
Alesha could always smell the coffee before he reached the
Atrium. The scent was pungent, vital, a rich aroma that
overwhelmed the festooning bowls of orchids. And there were other
smells, of omelet, fried bacon, and crisp buttery croissants that
were enough to make his mouth water. However, his yearning for a
taste was transitory, never longer than a few seconds. According
to his mother, a dancer could not gain even a single unnecessary
ounce. There were sacrifices required to become a dancer and
Alesha made them without complaint.

After a hurried return to his bedroom to collect his
homework and brush his teeth, Alesha could relax for the drive to
school. Sometimes, his mother called him on the cell phone that
Mr. Beaufort had given to him when he first arrived. He looked
forward to those calls, yet her voice was becoming increasingly
distant, barely registering what she said. And once, two days
ago, on Wednesday morning, Mr. Beaufort had called him about
nothing in particular, with no reason for his call except to
talk. He was bothered that Mr. Beaufort had not called again
since then.

The worst part of his day was sitting through the ordinary
subjects of language arts, mathematics, science, and social
studies. Such subjects did not interest him to any high degree,
although his consistent effort and attentive mind allowed him to
demonstrate abilities in addition to the art of movement. Alesha
Yaroshenko excelled at everything he did.

However, it was in the afternoon that Alesha came to life.
His dance studies began at noon, skipping lunch to participate in
an advanced class of ballet exercises. It was followed by a
highly structured mix of theory and application of different
styles of dance. Upon completion of the second hour, Alesha and a
half-dozen of his advanced classmates attended a special class in
Pilates. Of all the students, he appreciated the need to learn
body conditioning and strengthening techniques that were designed
to work the entire body as an integrated whole, but he needed it
least of all. Pilates was followed in due course by Adagio and
Allegro, and three times a week by a special class in Repertoire,
taught by the renowned Monsieur Bonnard of the Paris School.
Still dressed in leotards, the students finished their formal
studies for the day in Dance Culture, a basic education in
anatomy, exercise physiology, nutrition, and sex education. When
other students went home, the advanced students stayed on for
variations and pas de deux.

And when those students went home to practice, Alesha was
conducted to gymnastics training for four afternoons per week. He
had a quick snack in the car, nothing more exciting than an
apple, but there was always a special treat of chocolate, a
truffle from a confectioner in Paris, a truffle wrapped carefully
in silver foil by his patron. Usually, he shared the truffle with
Dewon. Sometimes, they flipped a coin to see who would get it
all.

By the time he arrived back home, he was tired. He recovered
quickly, which was fortunate, because he went up to the Attic to
practice until dinner, taken in a continental mode from 8 p.m. to
nine. Most nights he was joined by Mr. Beaufort, and while Alesha
would liked to have lingered through the meal, he ate hurriedly
for he used the next hour to do whatever homework had been
assigned. The days literally flew by.

That Friday evening, a mere two weeks after his mother's
departure for Texas, found Alesha restless and drained of energy.
Instead of gymnastics, which was exhausting in itself, he had
attended a special session with the Director of the Academy and
Monsieur Ricard, the Ballet Company choreographer to review the
steps for his new solo dance. There was nothing to assist him,
not even a video of someone else. He knew of no other dancer who
had done the Russian Sailor's Dance. Immediately, he realized
that he would be hard pressed to achieve the necessary level of
excellence before the performance date. It was only a few weeks
away.

So tired. He stopped and stretched and closed his eyes. Had
it only been a week ago that he had danced as the Sugar Plum
Fairy? It seemed longer, shorter, no time at all, forever. His
legs ached. Mr. Beaufort had watched him, dancing en pointe, yet
he had accepted his grotesque attire. He had expected to be
laughed at, derided for dressing as a girl, yet Mr. Beaufort had
been compassionate. Why had he understood when even Alesha could
not understand why he had done it?

Alesha began to dance again, slowly repeating the several
dozen motions of the Russian Sailor's Dance that he had already
committed to memory. The first problem was to remember the order
of the steps. Once that was done, he could begin to move without
having to think ahead. Some of it came easily, but not all of it.
It was truly a labor of love. Why were there so many rotations
and variations on a theme? So little of the dance was repetition.
He stopped and examined the score. Sometimes it helped to read
the music, to see it in his head without the distraction of
listening to the notes. Holding the uppermost sheet before him,
he retraced his steps again.

"Fuck!"

Alesha almost never swore. He was frustrated. He had thought
he had been doing it correctly. How could he have been so wrong?
He tried again, one step and then the next. He groaned. It was so
easy to get it inverted. A step. Leg extended. Right knee bent.
Then out. Turn. Leg down again. A skip. Damn, he got it wrong
again. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Instead, his
mind drifted.

He had kissed Mr. Beaufort. Not once but several times. The
very thought made him smile. It had happened so quickly, or had
it happened at all? A dream so real that it was fact? And Mr.
Beaufort had kissed him back. Not once. But several times as
well. That wasn't a dream. If he tried hard, he could still
remember the man's kindhearted smile; a smell which tantalized
the nose, defying any name but manly, the reassuring roughness of
his face. Then, he, Alesha Yaroshenko, idiot that he was, had
spoiled it all. In the car, he had yielded to a gnawing hunger
that had risen up inside him without a warning. It was a
demanding urge that wanted something that was still foreign to
him.

While he danced with Mr. Beaufort that strange unfathomable
urge loomed ever closer, like an ever-present shadow. Finally,
though he was not at all certain when it had occurred during the
ride back to the house, he began to understand. What he wanted
was the same thing that the other boys had been doing on the
dance floor. He wanted the man to touch him, his body, especially
there, in the place that felt so good. So he had suggested the
man undress him. That was all. That was all it took to spoil
everything.

"Fuck!" Alesha cursed again, more vehemently than before.
The obscene word regretted as soon as he had said it.

He was tired. He could barely focus on the music. His feet
were leaden, slow moving, uncoordinated. When he was tired, his
mother held him. She cradled him in her arms and soothingly
kissed his forehead. It always took away his aches and pains.
Then, she would massage his limbs, relaxing the taut overworked
muscles until he drifted off to sleep. He missed her so much that
it hurt. Yet, even then as he remembered being held by her, his
longing intensified. However, it wasn't his mother who Alesha
wanted. He wanted a man to hold him. Not the father he had never
known, but a man who was his alone, a man who was dominating, but
kind. A man who understood him, who gave unequivocal approval to
his needs.

Alesha sighed, reflecting. He had made a terrible mistake.
The instant that he had spoken, suggesting he should be
undressed, what had been so wonderful had suddenly diminished to
a dream. They had traveled the rest of the way home in silence.
Inside his head, Alesha's fears had grown quickly, multiplying
with a frightening intensity. In the days that followed, his
barely realized need also became stronger, clamoring to possess
his mind, his very being. Mr. Beaufort was still polite, not
overbearing or unpleasant, and he still visited him in the Attic
every evening. He came for company, he said, yet his eyes
followed Alesha's every move. However, the closeness was gone at
a time when Alesha needed to be held more than anything else. It
was almost as if the man was afraid to be alone with him.

"Why?" Alesha sighed despondently. "Why am I so incredibly
stupid?"

He no longer felt like dancing, certainly not the Russian
Sailor's Dance. He placed the score on the bench and dreamily
closed his eyes. It had been so wonderful when Mr. Beaufort
kissed him. He licked his lips, trying to remember, doing his
best to imagine what might have happened in the car. It was like
finding out a secret, piece by piece. If things had turned out
differently Mr. Beaufort would have undressed him, dropping his
few clothes, his shirt and glittering jeans, onto the thickly
carpeted floor. Perhaps Mr. Beaufort might have kissed his body.
Alesha smiled at that. He knew that was what men did to boys.
Roland said that Mr. Kalmann kissed him there all the time, on
his 'peenie', and more than that as well. Alesha had learned
about 'sucking cock'. His mother had talked about that intimate
act as well, although her discussion of the subject was limited
to his mouth being placed on a man's penis rather than a man's
mouth upon his own.

Alesha felt between his legs. The hardness was there again
as he expected, stiffly pointing upwards until it was constrained
by his leotard. He glanced down, watching his fingers caressing
lightly. He saw the elongated shape, short, thin, a little
thicker just before the tip. It seemed so small, not at all like
Roland's penis. It was the first penis that Alesha had ever
touched besides his own. It was hot, moist, both very sticky and
extremely slimy where it was wet. And the ring, that tiny metal
ring. He had felt it on the very end of Roland's penis, passing
through the skin beneath just before the head flared out. He
wondered what it looked like, what it would be like to have one
on his own penis.

Absently fondling his erection, Alesha wandered from the
Attic through the adjoining change room and into Mr. Beaufort's
'private room'. He was honored to be the only other person in the
house who had permission to enter at any time. He ambled to the
center of the room, fascinated by the fountain, by the delicate
orchids that grew in profusion around it. It was so incredibly
beautiful that it seemed like another world. He drifted across to
the closet where the ballet clothes were stored. He made a
perfunctory pass through the racks, recognizing a peasant dress
from Spain, another richly decorated skirt from his homeland,
flimsy tutus and delicate chiffon ball gowns. For a few seconds,
he considered trying one on.

He was so tired that he quickly lost interest. He crossed
the room and eased down wearily onto the divan. The exotic fur
covering felt soft against his skin. He moved onto his front and
closing his eyes, wondered what it was like to do what the other
boys had talked about. Accoding to Roland, he had sex all the
time. Even the Mexican boy, Ramon, said he was having sex every
night, and he was only ten. None of the boys who he had met were
ashamed of what they did. He was the only boy on the dance floor
who was still a virgin.

Alesha arched his back and pushed his groin into the
mattress. He moved his body, rotating, pushing down, wriggling to
rub his rigid penis against the divan. The sensations made him
twitch. He stopped. It felt strange, a tickle, almost too nice,
almost hurting, yet he had to keep doing it. He started again,
barely realizing that within a few seconds his uncertain pushes
were suddenly becoming harder and faster. His body was beginning
to tremble. He gasped. Stopped. Breathed deeply. His throbbing
penis was trapped inside his leotard. He had to release it. He
rolled onto his back and began to remove the stretchy Lycra skin
that covered him.

He did not worry about being naked. The door was closed. The
only way in was through the change room. No one would see him. He
peeled off the leotard and with a shameless giggle, dropped it on
the floor. His white leggings and ballet shoes were still on, but
forgotten. He gazed along the length of his body. He was thin.
His ribs were prominent, his belly dipped away, then rising to
his hips. And lower, he saw his penis. It was short and hard and
it stood up straight up. Casually, Alesha pulled it down. He let
it go. It slapped against his lower belly. He giggled at the
sound. Tentatively, his fingers enclosed it. It was hotter than
any other part of him. He fingered the tip, tracing a line across
the tender puckered skin.

According to his mother, 'Mr. Beaufort would want to pull
back the skin on the end, so he should get used to it by doing it
himself'. Carefully, Alesha's hand grasped, his fingers squeezed
against his stiffness, then easing slowly down. He watched,
entranced. The tiny crimson head peaked out through an opening
that seemed far too small to allow it come out further. He
quivered. The feeling was unlike anything he had ever felt
before, not even when he washed himself. He kept his hand there,
the tips of his fingers pressing into the looseness of his extra
skin to keep it pulled back. After a while it began to sting, not
uncomfortable, but unnerving. Strangely, by the time he stopped
and carefully pushed it back, the usually tight opening at the
end had managed to reach halfway down his glans.

There was a woven basket on the divan that appeared
interesting. Alesha opened it and looked inside. His heart
accelerated. There were beads, some white like pearls, the rest
colored and of varying size. He fingered the contents absently
before lifting out one long strand of white beads. He examined
it, knowing what he was going to do, but guiltily delaying the
thrill he would have when he finally yielded to his inclination.
He would put it on. There was never any doubt of that. His hands
were shaking. But where? Around his neck? He used to wear his
mother's jewelry whenever she was out. He shivered. His
excitement was overpowering. Not around his neck. He trailed the
beads across his legs, then over his groin. His penis jumped.
Alesha quivered from the sudden feelings. Up his belly. Across
his chest. The little round beads tickled. He swallowed, half-
closing his eyes, pretending, his imagination filling a role that
wasn't male. Around his waist? It was long enough with some to
spare. His heart pounded as he slipped one end under his back,
picking up both ends, looping them, making a knot just below his
navel. The ends were still long enough to reach beyond his groin.

He stared. His penis was even harder now. The veins had
turned dark blue, standing out just beneath the creamy pink skin.
And the skin was tighter than before. Throbbing from inside his
body. His heart was jumping in his chest. He could barely think.
He turned back to the box of beads. Something else? 'Don't over
do it.' That was what his mother said. True beauty did not need
excessive decoration. What else? He hurriedly searched through
the beautifully woven box, oblivious to the beads that fell out.
Most were necklaces. Something simple. Not white! In red,
perhaps? The small blue-beaded bracelet was interesting, although
it was too big for his wrist. His arm. Alesha slipped his hand
through, carefully pushing the bracelet higher and higher until
it passed his elbow. When he stopped it was nearly at his
shoulder.

Alesha stood up on very shaky legs. He wanted to see himself
in the mirror. The mirror that ran along the wall of the dance
studio. He would dance like this, naked for the world to see even
if no one would. He ran, aware more than ever before of the thing
that bobbed between his legs. He paused to regain his breath. He
could not remember being so excited.

Alesha danced without music, inventing steps that were
unlike any he had ever done. Each move was carefully orchestrated
to emphasis his groin, not crudely sexual but deliciously sensual
and equally arousing. There was only the faintest sound from his
feet, the en pointe toe shoes making a soft scuffing sound as he
moved. The beads bounced and swayed between his lean thighs,
flirting with his already tortured flesh until his penis hurt.
His buttocks tensed, pulling inward, squeezing tight. By then,
his hips were jerking erratically. He gasped, realized that he
was panting, quaking from deep within. What was happening to him?
He wavered, challenged by his own body to complete what had been
started. Just a little longer and it would be over. Instead,
scared by the sheer intensity of what was still unknown, he
stopped.

Naked, Alesha Yaroshenko assumed the fifth position. He
began with his front heel crossing to the big toe joint of his
back foot. Cautiously, he lifted up, stressing his ankle tendons
until he had to close his eyes to stop from wincing. He felt a
momentary twinge of pain race upward from his heels. His legs
quivered.

"One... Two... Three.. Four. Five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten,"
he cried softly before he dropped down again.

The effort required to dance en pointe took away his
thoughts of everything except what he had to do. It lasted only a
few minutes before he was once again overtaken by desire.



ACT IV Scene I.

Alesha was dancing, unashamed and reveling in the freedom
that only nakedness could bring to such a wonderful body. There
was not even a flimsy leotard to hold him back. I watched, like a
voyeur, peeping from behind the wall, not pruriently watching the
person but his reflection on the mirror along the far wall. It
would be easy to say that Alesha defied description and leave it
at that, but that would be a great injustice to him. His motions
were fluid, flowing, sensual, full of the joy of life. A nymph. A
sprite. A thousand times more graceful than any prima donna. His
body was rigorously controlled with the precise articulated
movements of the Russian school of dance, although surely no
dancer had ever danced like this. His short penis was erect. I
realized that right away and it aroused within me a passionate
desire. Two strings of white beads bounced back and forth,
swinging between his legs to bump against his compact scrotum,
slapping again and again onto his penis. I was mired in such
depraved lust that he demanded my constant gaze.

Even Alesha was aware of his aroused state for he danced
with a bemused expression, often thrusting his pelvis to the
fore. His thighs seemed to shelter and then expose that precious
part of him, allowing it the chance to take on a magic of its
own. Did he realize how beautiful he was, that he had discovered
the secret to his sexuality?

Of course, he saw me, or perhaps he heard me. My heart was
beating like a drum. He stopped, turning his back to me for an
instant before he realized that the rear view was every bit as
wonderful as the view in front. He turned side on, dropping his
hand beside him to shield the thing that stuck out at an angle.
He blushed.

"I'm sorry, Alesha," I began apologetically. "I didn't mean
to interrupt you,..."

"It's okay. It's just that I didn't realize you were there,
Mr. Beaufort, That's all. You surprised me."

"I hope you don't mind," I said awkwardly. "It was so
breathtaking to watch. I couldn't leave. You're a very beautiful
boy," I added sincerely.

Alesha smiled, turning towards me, but still keeping his
hand in place to cover what did not want to be hidden from my
sight. Even without my glasses, I could see the tiny crimson tip
peeking through his fingers.

"I don't mind you seeing me naked," he announced bravely.

"You don't?"

"Of course not. It would be different if you were Mr. Peters
or Dewon."

"Well, I'm not," I chuckled. "However, I'll make certain to
give both of them strict instructions that you are not be
disturbed when you're up here."

"So then I can dance nude from now on?" Alesha giggled.

"If you want to, of course you can. Next time I'll be sure
to knock," I added seriously.

"You don't have to," Alesha muttered.

"Anyway, you aren't quite nude, are you?" I pointed out.

Alesha glanced down, taking my eyes with his. His white
leggings were old and somewhat loose so they had slipped
partially down his thighs. However, it was not the leggings that
he was concerned with when he quickly looked up again.

"I'm sorry about taking the beads."

"Pardon? Oh the beads?" I laughed. "Don't worry about them.
They look much better on you than they would on me."

He grinned at me, relieved.

"Anyway, the reason why I came up was to ask you whether
you'd be interested in going out to dinner with me tonight?"

"Yes!"

Alesha all but shouted. I laughed, enjoying his obvious
happiness as much as the magnificent sight that was standing
before me. How was it possible for human form to attain absolute
perfection and then sink to the dismal depths of deformity? Was
it simply a matter of careful breeding? A mother and father with
the right genetic structure? Although his mother was faultless in
her beauty, there had to more than the random meeting of sperm
and egg to create Alesha? My eyes traveled up and down his almost
naked body. There was not a single detail that I would change, I
decided. His proportions were ideal, yet a month ago I might well
have considered him to be too skinny. Alesha was anything but
skin and bones. Beneath his glabrous skin was lean muscle. His
form was beautifully defined, each indentation, each ridge, each
articulation combined in harmony to create his body.

"You sound like you're hungry."

"I'm starving."

"I'm glad to see that you've finally decided to eat like a
normal boy," I remarked with amusement. "I was beginning to think
I'd have to call your mother and tell her that you've wasted away
to nothing."

He giggled. "She already knows how much I eat. Where are we
going to go, Mr. Beaufort? The club where we went last week?"

He sounded hopeful, however I could not stomach another meal
of chicken wings and french fries, even though the fun the boys
had there more than compensated for the dismal food. Besides,
Alesha would see three of the boys the following night. I was
looking forward to an appetizing dinner in a setting commensurate
with my age and station.

"A place that you should like I think, Alesha," I replied.
"It's called the Russian Tea Room."

I took his hand and led him forward, once again passing
through the changing room and into my 'private room' where prying
eyes would not see him revealed in his natural state. I closed
the door behind us.

Alesha beamed. "That's where you took Mama."

"Yes, that's right."

"She wouldn't stop talking about how nice it was," Alesha
said.

He stopped walking when he reached the fountain. For an
instant he fingered one of the orchids, my favorite. Did he
realize its similarity to that important part of a boy's anatomy?
There was a good reason why I had taken to calling it the
'scrotum orchid'. He turned back to look at me, suddenly
crestfallen.

"But it's so fancy, Mr. Beaufort. I have nothing good to
wear."

"Hm. I presume that means you think that your glitter pants
and top might not be appropriate in a formal setting?" I
suggested with barely constrained amusement.

He regarded me as if I was out of my mind. However, his
answer took me by surprise.

"Mama said that it was very fancy, but I would wear them if
you wanted me too," he offered gracefully if uncertainly.

"Do you want to get me arrested?" I scoffed.

"No, of course not. So I can't go like that, can I?" He
inclined his head. Slowly, he smiled. "You bought me some more
clothes didn't you, Mr. Beaufort?"

Despite my request that he call me Sheldon, after a day or
two Alesha had promptly resorted to a more formal appellation. I
would have much preferred that he used my first name or even
resorted to 'Mr. B.', that much too-familiar sobriquet employed
by Dewon.

"Who me?" I pretended to look around the room, before I
shrugged. "I don't see any packages here, do you?"

He saw right through me. He grinned. "Mama thinks you're
spoiling me," Alesha said.

"Who me?" I repeated.

"When are we leaving? I need time to take a shower. Last
week, I was sure that people could smell me from across the
room."

"If they did, then it must have been a very nice aroma," I
teased. "Everyone I talked to thought you were simply stunning."

"Then they probably were far enough away that they couldn't
smell me," Alesha giggled.

"Well, we won't be leaving for another hour," I said,
consulting my watch. "So you have plenty of time to get ready."

"You did buy me some fancy clothes, didn't you?"

He sounded uncertain, and his eyes expressed concern. He
watched me expectantly, still hopeful, yet accepting whatever I
might say for he had learned that life was hard and nothing came
for free. What I had seen of the clothes that he had brought with
him were either second hand or bought at great discount.

"Actually, I thought you might go dressed the way you are,"
I teased relentlessly.

He glanced quickly down before he giggled. "That would
definitely get you arrested."

"Why me? You're the one who's naked," I pointed out. "I
think the beads are a very appealing addition, by the way."

He grinned. "You did get me something to wear. I know you
did."

"They're in your room," I answered when he showed signs of
becoming anxious.

"Thank you so much," he gushed. He paused. "They're not like
before?" he asked warily.

"No, this time I want you to look normal. Nice, but normal.
And very sexy of course," I added just loud enough for him to
hear.

He frowned. "Do you really think I'm sexy? I know I'm not
like Roland or anything. He's very sexy, but am I just a little
bit sexy?"

How could Alesha even begin to think that Roland could
compare to him? He had it completely upside down and inside out.
Certainly, Roland aroused me, but in a very different way. Not
unlike forbidden fruit, because he was very much Julian's boy.
Roland was also a good looking boy who openly expressed his
sexuality, a combination that ensured he received his share of my
attention. Alesha, either dressed, or as naked as he was at that
very moment, sent such a powerful surge through me that I
wondered whether my heart could take the stress much longer. In
terms of 'sexy', he was 'off the scale'. I swallowed back the
words before they gushed out from my mouth, realizing that I had
been staring. I looked up quickly from his lithe body. Alesha
smiled, ever the shy retiring boy. We both knew what I had been
looking at.

"I'm sorry it isn't very big," Alesha murmured.

I gaped, not believing that he was apologizing for something
which I considered the epitome of boyhood. Had I been more
analytical, I would have understood his worry. Most boys of his
age associated penis-size with desirability.

"Why on earth do you think that?"

"Because it's small," Alesha answered simply.

"It isn't small. At least not on you. It's perfect"

"Yes it is. I have seen other boys' peenies, you know.
Roland's is huge compared to mine."

I laughed. "Alesha, eventually you'll learn that it isn't
how big it is, but what you do with it that counts. Besides, it's
more than big enough when it's hard, and that dear boy, is all
that matters."

"Big enough for what?" Alesha asked curiously.

"To get a boy like you into lots of trouble," I joked.

Alesha studied me quietly. Neither of us spoke. His penis,
which had subsided shortly after I had entered the Attic, was
slowly shrugging off its lethargy in response to some unspoken
message that it needed to be erect again. Even as I watched, it
lengthened and lifted up and away from the small fold of skin of
his scrotum.

"Do you want me to rub you back for a while?" I offered
hopefully.

"Yes, I'd like that very much," Alesha said shyly. "It helps
me to relax," he added as if justification was required.

"Then lie down and let me get to it," I ordered. "We won't
have very long before we need to get ready to go to dinner."

Alesha lay down on the divan, keeping his slender legs close
together and crooking his arm to form a pillow beneath his head.
I sat down beside him and began gently stroking across his
shoulders. Although, I had rubbed his back before, it was still a
strange sensation. It was like touching the softest silk yet
beneath that smooth outer layer I was massaging my fingers into
strong muscle and bone. He sighed and began to relax.

"That feels nice," he mused absently. "Your hands are much
stronger than Mama's."

"I would hope so, otherwise there's something very wrong," I
joked. "I'm not rubbing too hard, am I?"

"No I like it harder."

"Like this?" I asked, squeezing my hands into his flesh so
forcefully that he was pushed deeper onto the divan.

"Yes, like that," Alesha murmured. "Do my back lower.
Please," he added as an afterthought.

His face was turned to the side, a sybaritic and very happy
smile reassuring me that I was doing exactly what he wanted. I
slowly worked my way down, making a point of working every little
rounded knob of Alesha's spine until he squirmed and sighed. The
tension slowly faded in that lean lithe body until I realized
that my nearly naked dancer was beginning to get drowsy. He
sounded like a purring cat, making a low rumbling sound from deep
within his chest.

I played with the string of beads, tugging gently in the
fond hope that the ends which were underneath him somehow rubbed
against his hidden jewels. He stirred slightly, lifting up a
fraction, slipping his hand beneath him to rearrange himself, to
find a more comfortable position.

By the time I reached the start of his buttocks I was as
excited as I had ever been, yet I controlled myself. I had
promised myself that I would wait until there was a sign that my
touch was not intrusive. I would do nothing unless Alesha wanted
me to. I hoped that I did not have long to wait, but I contented
myself by making little circular sweeps that brushed over the
swelling where his buttocks started. Without warning, Alesha's
legs parted. It was a quite deliberate action, spreading apart
until his thighs were far enough away for me to look between
them. I could see the part that gave me cause to want to love
him. Casually, but completely unable to resist a moment longer, I
leaned forward. I continued gently rubbing his firm small
buttocks while I parted them with my thumbs pressed into the
flesh. It was just enough to see within. His anus was a tiny
puckered spot. It was so small that it defied the very
possibility of what I wanted deep inside. There was the thin
rippled line that every male has, that vestigial remnant of his
conception and the androgynous state before a male's organs were
formed.

On Alesha, that line from his anus seemed particularly
noticeable, a defined ridge that showed the curvature of his
little scrotum, itself a wrinkled knot that appeared barely large
enough to contain anything of worthwhile size. Yet, I could
discern the slight swelling on either side. It was sufficent to
show he was a boy who was still a very long way from puberty. I
was very careful not to touch him there. Instead, I continued
rubbing at a slow place down his nearest leg. His calf and thigh
muscles were firm as only a dancer's muscles could be. Behind his
knee his thin tendons were like cords of steel. I reached his
foot, working his Achilles tendon between my fingers while
rotating his foot with my other hand.

"Oh, that's so good," Alesha murmured. "How do you know what
to do? It's as if you know how to do it exactly the way I like
it?"

"Luck, I guess," I ventured. "Does it hurt?" I asked when he
suddenly winced.

Alesha nodded once. "It's not that bad. My ankles get sore
when I practice en pointe for too long. However, it's the best
way to make my legs stronger."

I shifted to his other leg, again starting near his hip and
using all of my strength to massage his over-worked muscles.
Minutes passed before I reached his foot again.

"That feels so much better," Alesha droned. "Thank you."

"Would you like me to do your front as well?" I asked
playfully.

"You only want to see me naked," Alesha jeered. He sounded
less shy.

"So what if I do," I replied boldly. He was smiling, and if
not exactly encouraging, at least not resisting in the slightest.
"Besides, I've seen all of you already today."

"What if my peenie's hard?" Alesha asked teasingly.

"What? This little thing?" I laughed.

Playfully, my hand slid between his thighs. I had not
intended to touch him there, certainly not without explicit
permission. Yet, my fingers brushed across the back of the
walnut-like husk of his scrotum, grasping mischievously, then
sliding further around it before I realized his hardness was
captured between my fingers. Small and hot and as hard as metal.
I thought of a steel rod, bigger than a rivet, too small to be a
railroad spike, unyielding yet forged in living human flesh. That
was Alesha's penis.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly as I hurriedly released my grip.
"I didn't mean to do that."

Alesha glared at me. Neither of us spoke. My hand was safely
out of the way, yet I could not stop trembling. Our eyes met for
an instant before he swiftly glanced away. His eyelids flickered
with nervous excitement. What was I looking at behind those sky-
blue eyes? Was there still an innocent mind inside that head, or
something else? Was I gazing at a wanton boy? Was Alesha feeling
the first stirrings of juvenile lust?

Without warning, Alesha turned over. It happened very
quickly, almost as if he had made a decision and he had to act
upon it before he had second thoughts. The reasons for his
impetuous behavior amused me while I feasted my eyes. He wanted
to be seen. He was showing off to me. He was startling beautiful.
His penis stuck straight up along his lower belly, hovering but
not touching, a lever to be pulled in play. I licked my lips
absently, which for some reason gave Alesha reason to giggle.

"Well?" he prompted. "Are you going to do my front or not?"

"Are you sure?"

He nodded curtly, then stretching both arms back behind his
head, lay back. Such a confusing person, alternating between shy
and shameless to suit some inner whim. His new position served to
enhance the lines of his ribs, the contour of muscle, the
articulated shape of his navel, and that other part of his body,
the part standing so proud and boldly assertive that I had to
smile appreciatively.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a marvelous body?" I
murmured.

"Just you," Alesha answered equally softly. He smiled
slightly, waiting, thinking. "Do you really like it?" he asked
uncertainly.

I nodded slowly, not once or twice but several more times,
like an automaton not able to look away. Who needed an
aphrodisiac when one had a boy like Alesha to gaze upon? How many
poets and artists had acclaimed the beauty of a young boy's body?
Not nearly as many as there should be, I thought to myself. He
was so complete in his sexually charged state, yet had it been
captured as a work of art, most people would have called it
pornography. Obscene, this delightful sight, this enchanting
spectacle, this vision of boyishness? Not by any measure that
truly appreciated the epitome of human perfection. He was only
doing what was natural.

"You can touch it if you want," Alesha said meekly.

His offer startled me, but no less than another offer of a
week ago. While I watched, his penis jumped, an instinctive
response to a stimulus that only Alesha could enjoy properly. I
was content merely to look. I gazed, admiring his naked body,
spontaneously flexing erectile tissue within a silken sleek skin.

"I shouldn't," I mumbled. "It isn't right."

"Mama said it was okay," he said looking up at me

My desire was quenched again. My lust was vacuumed out
before I had a chance to think. I remained, a pitiful more-than-
middle-aged shell of a man staring at a nearly naked boy whose
entire being radiated that three-lettered word that made life
worth living. Sex! Only a moment earlier I had yearned to be his
lover. Now, feeling very awkward, I stood up.

"The clothes are downstairs in your bedroom. You had better
hurry up and get dressed, Alesha."

Why had my voice turned so harsh? Why did I feel as if I had
done something innately evil by looking at Alesha? Was my desire
for him so depraved that I should hate myself? I saw the hurt in
his eyes and I tried to soften what I had said.

"We don't want to be late for our first date alone, do we?"
I remarked boldly.

He smiled slightly, his eyes brightening. He swallowed and
started to sit up. A dozen thin rolls of skin formed at his
waist, lapping over the strand of beads but not hiding them.

"Will you do me a special favor and wear the beads under
your clothes tonight, Alesha?" I asked as I started towards the
door.

Why had I said that?



Act IV Scene II

I was waiting in the foyer for only a minute or so before I
heard Alesha on the stairs. I looked up just as he appeared on
the landing. I felt a twinge of pain in my chest. He was radiant,
resplendent, nervous. He was divine. Indeed, any parent would
have been proud to call him 'son'. He was attired in clothes that
I had purchased earlier in the day from Lord and Taylor. By
shopping in the boys department, I had discovered the trick to
getting clothes to fit him. Alesha wore size ten-slim. I had
deliberately endeavored to avoid clothes that could be labeled
'Preppy', although it was a very difficult undertaking given
where I had shopped.

He wore a silk shirt with a faintly distinguishable pattern
of overlapping squares that implied a measure of transparency yet
by sheer complexity of the design denied the eye to unravel the
nature of what was being covered. For trousers, I had selected a
pair of Newport-style linen-colored chinos, the slender straight-
cut legs emphasizing just how slim he was. His jacket was
Italian, expensive, a combination cashmere and angora rabbit in a
shade of blue that was nearly indigo. I had risked the minor
inconvenience of having Dewon return at least one pair of shoes,
by purchasing three different sizes. One pair had to fit.

Only when he came downstairs to stand before me did I
realize the complete effect. Again, another transformation. If he
was still wearing the beads, it was the only thing that was out-
of-place on a boy who otherwise appeared perfectly normal He
sashayed across the polished marble floor, his glossy black shoes
squeaking with newness. He turned, glanced back at me with sly
amusement while I watched him, bewitched and completely under his
spell. He had moussed his hair, giving it added body and a hint
of something that would be considered fashionable, but for Alesha
could only be called effeminate. Despite his clothes, the real
Alesha was never far away.

"What do you think, Peters?" I asked. "Do you think they'll
let him in?"

"He's quite the young gentleman, Sir," Peters answered in
his dour voice that implied respect if nothing else.

"Indeed he is, Peters, and very stunning too. I'll have to
keep a close eye on him if there are girls around."

Alesha grimaced, making a face that showed exactly what he
thought of girls. Peters smiled knowingly, but knew better than
to offer further comment.

"Do the clothes fit, Alesha?"

"Yes, Mr. Beaufort. Very nicely. I love them. I've never had
anything this nice before. Thank you so much."

"They're not too,...." I left the thought unfinished.

Alesha smiled, still shy, but he had a tendency to be quiet
when Peters was around. My butler had the same effect on me at
times. I was grateful when he withdrew.

"They're perfect."

"I'm glad. We'd best be going. Dewon is waiting outside."

We made excellent time to reach 57th Street almost within
the hour. We arrived a few minutes after eight p.m. In such
places as the Russian Tea Room, the valet staff are accustomed to
very expensive automobiles. However, my white Bentley was
sufficiently of good taste that it was provided the place of
honor in the reserved parking spot just outside the restaurant
and on the opposite side to Carnegie Hall. I had no doubts that
it would be safe there so I gave Dewon fifty dollars and
instructions to return at ten p.m. to meet us.

Although my reservation was for a booth for two on the first
floor, we took the elevator, and after a momentary detour to the
third-floor ballroom to see the enormous glass panels of dancing
bears, we returned to where we had started. I had a brief
discussion with the Maitre d' before we entered into the main
room. It was a fabulous space, far overshadowing the Tavern on
the Green for sheer exuberance and extravagance.

"No wonder the peasants revolted if the Tsar's Palace was
anything like this. I would too, especially if I hadn't eaten in
a while," I remarked to Alesha as we were guided to our seats by
a very congenial host.

Alesha giggled. "Mama took me to the Tsar's Palace in Moscow
when I was little. It had a gold ceiling too, just like this."

"You have an excellent memory," I observed. "You couldn't
have been more than six or seven."

Alesha smiled and shrugged and slid into the red-leather
upholstered booth. Behind his head was a gigantic Russian samovar
filled with flowers and on the wall above was an eighteenth
century painting of two fearsome Cossacks on horseback. He looked
around him quickly. He did not need me to tell him that he was
the only child. We were surrounded by well-dressed older couples
who were probably frequent patrons and a few younger people who
were clearly on the way to bankruptcy if they tried to make a
habit of eating there. There were also a number of nouveau rich,
'digital entrepreneurs' as I referred to them. Those men, were
out of their league in every aspect but the ability to spend
their newly made IPO fortunes.

We had only been seated for a matter of seconds before our
waiter approached with menus. Even before he reached the table,
he gave me the 'once-over', that critical assessment of one's
social station that all waiters perform. I met his eyes, without
showing a sign of anything except dreariness. He was there to
serve, and nothing else. Alesha was accorded a perfunctory
sideways glance before being dismissed to the blissful purgatory
of pre-teen ignorance.

"Good evening, Mr. Beaufort," he began with a heavily
accented Eastern European voice.

Under other circumstances, if he had not known the surname,
he would have addressed my companion as Madam, Ms., or Miss, but
Alesha flummoxed him so that he had to search for another term of
address. Had he thought before he spoke, he could have addressed
us both quite admirably as 'sirs'. I looked up, waiting while he
tried to find an escape from his dilemma.

"It's a pleasure to have you and your son with us this
evening," he continued insipidly.

I considered acknowledging the faux pas for a few seconds. I
glanced quickly at Alesha, wondering whether he had noticed. He
had. There was amusement in his eyes when they met mine. He did
not seem offended. Indeed, the innocuous way he looked back at me
seemed to be saying that he was ambivalent about the mistake. For
myself, I was quite happy with the idea.  Instead, of saying
something to counter the waiter's error, I nodded curtly. With
luck, the poor man would spend the rest of the evening wondering
what he had done wrong.

"Dobriy vyechyer," Alesha suddenly said in perfect Russian.

The waiter's mouth opened but nothing came out. Alesha
smiled.

"Ma ah Alesha Yurivich", he added

"Zvinitye."

"I'm from Kiev," Alesha continued.

I was amazed how easily he could pass from one language to
another. For me, French was a second language, but there were
times when I still found myself translating back and forth from
English. For Alesha, the words appeared to come naturally.

"You're from the Ukraine?" the waiter asked.

"Da."

"You speak Ukrainian as well as Russian?"

"Of course. It is what my mother and I speak at home."

"Your father is American?"

"Nyet! Mr. Beaufort isn't my father," Alesha answered
awkwardly.

Again, his eyes flickered towards me, leaving the impression
that he had not wanted to correct the waiter's assumption.

"Alesha is my house guest," I explained quickly.

Why did I feel guilty? Nothing improper had happened.
Indeed, with the exception of my indecent urges, I had treated
very much as a son. I smiled at Alesha, realizing the truth of
what I was about to say.

"I would adopt him if I could. However, his mother would
never give him up."

Alesha was startled, but he bowed his head as if he had not
heard me and studiously examined the menu. After a moment's
hesitation the waiter asked me whether we required the
traditional appetizer of caviar. I nodded.

"Beluga," I said simply.

"Of course, Mr. Beaufort. Enough for one?"

I regarded Alesha. He lifted his eyes. "Have you eaten
caviar before, Alesha?" I asked.

"Yes, when we lived in Kiev or when we visited the man who
used to be Mama's patron. She sometimes buys it at Christmas, but
not proper caviar of course. It's from salmon instead of sturgeon
eggs."

Did Alesha know that his mother's 'patron', Yuri Garnov, was
his father? Certainly, he had not showed a trace of emotion. I
suspected that his mother had concealed his father's identity.

"Your best caviar for two," I said to the waiter.

The waiter glanced quickly at Alesha before looking back at
me. He nodded. "I think we have something that is special. May I
assume that you aren't interested in the price?"

"Correct. And I'll take some of the smoked salmon too, if
it's any good."

"It's Scottish and excellent, I might add, Sir. It's from
Tobermory, I believe."

"Tobermory is a town on the Isle of Mull on the west coast
of Scotland. Its salmon is usually exceptionally good," I
explained to Alesha.

"And something to drink? Might I recommend a champagne to go
with the caviar? Something full-bodied and yeasty? We have a 1990
Dom Perignon."

I did not bother to consult the wine list. "That would be
nice, but I will have a bottle of '93 Veuve Clicquot instead. The
Dame, of course. I think Alesha would like to have a virgin
daiquiri."

Alesha giggled and shook his head. Only a week ago we had
been seated in another booth at a far less prestigious place, but
one whose membership was very selective.

"You'll make me fat. Could I have some water instead?"

"Perrier, with fizz," I continued. "For both of us, please."

The waiter departed.

"Unless I'm mistaken, and I don't think I am, the person
sitting over there is an ersatz Democrat," I observed with a
smile.

"Huh? A what?"

"An ersatz Democrat," I repeated with a smile.

"What's that?"

"That my boy, is a person who professes to be a Democrat,
but in reality, has no interest in helping anyone except
himself."

Alesha casually turned, giving the impression that he was
simply examining his surroundings. His eyes quickly took it all
in, passing over the adjoining table, and then the next one
before he looked quickly back at me.

"That's Senator,...."

I nodded and winked before Alesha had a chance to finish
what he was saying. "That's not his wife, by the way, Alesha. It
seems that not only does promiscuity run in the family, but also
a great deal of stupidity."

That got a smile from my young companion.

"And over there is,..."

I lowered my head close to Alesha's told him the name. It
took a moment or two to register. Alesha nearly turned around. I
smiled and waved to Elton John and his friend.

"You know him?" Alesha whispered.

"Somewhat," I answered. "He's been at the house for dinner a
couple of times. He's helped to arrange the entertainment for
some charity events that the Foundation underwrote."

"You're famous too, aren't you?" Alesha asked.

"Who me? Hardly. I've spent most of my life having fun. It's
only the last few years that I've done anything worthwhile. And
most of that is finishing off what my mother started."

I was always self-effacing. Even as a child I lived
perpetually in my mother's shadow. It would do little good to
tell Alesha what I had been doing since I left Harvard. If I
found it boring then he would definitely not be interested.

With a flourish, the waiter placed two small dishes of
nearly black caviar on the table and some plates with wedges of
toast.

"I see it's Malossol Beluga," I observed.

"Yes, Sir," the waiter answered proudly before he left.

"Malossol Beluga is the highest quality," I said to Alesha.
"It has a nutty texture and a taste you will never forget. They
used to save it for the Czars."

I watched with amusement as Alesha used the special spoon to
place some on one of the toasted wedges. He lifted it to his
mouth, touched the caviar lightly with his tongue, tasted it.

"Is it good?" I asked nervously. I wanted him to like it.

"It's salty."

"Not too salty, I hope?"

Alesha shook his head and took a small bite. It was a little
like watching a rabbit nibbling. Every time he swallowed the tip
of his pink tongue would pop out between his lips, picking up the
taste. I leaned my elbow on the table and rested my chin in my
hand. I could not conceive of a more perfect scene.

"What are you looking at?"

"Huh?" I sat up quickly. "Nothing."

"You were staring at me."

"Um,... Yes, I guess I was."

"Why?" He sounded curious.

"No reason in particular," I said innocently.

Alesha seemed to accept that explanation. "You haven't had
any caviar yet, Mr. Beaufort."

"Me? No, I haven't, have I? Do you like it now you're used
to the taste?"

"It's very good."

"Then I suppose I should."

Clumsily, I heaped some of the shiny dark pebbles onto a
triangle of toast. A few broke away and scattered onto the
tablecloth.

"Drat!"

"Drat?" Alesha repeated with a grin. "What does 'drat'
mean?"

"You've never heard anyone say 'drat that' before?" I said
in mock disbelief. "It's what you say when you spill caviar on
the tablecloth. It's like saying 'blast' or 'damn', or if you're
from the south, 'shucks' or 'doggone'."

"If you're my age you'd say 'fuck'," Alesha giggled.

The last word was whispered so softly that no one else could
hear. There was something incredibly exciting about hearing a boy
say that word.

"I suppose so," I chuckled. "Of course, I'm not eleven, am
I? At my age that's not a word that you use very often."

"Why not?" Alesha teased. His voice lowered. "Isn't that
what men want to do boys?"

I nearly choked on the caviar and toast. "Why don't you eat
some more caviar?" I suggested hurriedly.

He gave me a look of exasperation and ate another wedge of
toast while I managed to wolf down three pieces. Without a doubt,
Beluga was one of my favorite foods, and with the Veuve Clicquot
and Alesha's company, I was in an excellent mood. However, the
thought that continued to run through my mind was whether he was
old enough to grasp the implication of what he had said. The
manner in which he had said it should have left no doubt in my
mind, but there was always a presumption of innocence for
children.

Fortunately, when he finished eating, he was interested in
something else. As soon as we had ordered the next course, he sat
back in the seat.

"Mama told me that you watched her dance when she first came
to New York," he announced.

"Yes, I did, Alesha. She was in Giselle. She was very good."
I shook my head. "No that's wrong. She was wonderful, Alesha. She
was among the best I've ever seen."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Do you remember what she wore?"

"How on earth could I remember that long ago! She danced the
'six', I remember that. She was much better than any of the other
dancers."

"She wore a beautiful white dress," Alesha murmured. "I used
to watch from the wings." He sighed sadly. "The last time was
just before the accident. She won't let me watch her now."

"I'm sorry," I said softly.

Alesha shrugged absently. "Mama said I will become a great
dancer when I'm older."

"You already are a great dancer."

"Ha! I'm not. I'm much too clumsy, Mr. Beaufort."

"At least you don't drop caviar everywhere," I joked.

"Have you ever seen a sturgeon?"

"Hm,... Not in the Caspian sea. I suppose you have?"

He nodded. "It's huge. I guess that's why its eggs are so
big."

"I expect so."

He fell quiet, yet even silent, his eyes were busy taking in
the world around him. Finally, he looked up again.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"It's,... well it's sort,... sort of personal," he continued
nervously. "You might not want to answer."

I nodded. "Why don't you ask and let me decide," I
suggested.

Again, his eyes danced away. It was nearly a minute later
when he took a quick drink of Perrier and readied himself to
talk. His voice was very soft and I had to lean closer to hear
what he said.

"When did you know?"

"Know? Know what?"

"You know,... About being like the people at the club."

"Oh!" I smiled. "Oh that! Hm,... I expect I was about your
age. I don't think I was much older than eleven, and I certainly
wasn't any younger."

"He considered that. "How did you know?"

"Well, I don't really remember. I think it just happened.
None of my friends were old enough to have real girlfriends, but
they still talked a lot about girls. And I didn't. It was that
simple. I finally realized that I wasn't interested in girls."

"That's all?" Alesha asked uncertainly.

"No, it was more than that." I smiled, thinking back. It
seemed so long ago. It was long ago. "I think the main thing was
that I would look at my friends, and other boys too, and decide
who I thought was the best looking."

"Just boys?" Alesha whispered furtively.

"I'm only attracted to boys," I answered. "I thought you'd
already figured that out."

"Mama said you were,... But why am I different?"

"How are you different?" I asked gently.

Alesha fiddled with his two knifes, aligning them carefully.
His fingers were deft, long and thin, and carefully manicured. I
could not remember ever seeing a boy who had such graceful hands.

"I don't look at boys," Alesha admitted shyly. "Well,
sometimes I do, if they're older or dressed nicely," he murmured.

"You usually look at men, don't you?"

He nodded and quickly looked down. I felt very sorry for
him. Being gay was a very difficult thing to admit to oneself,
but to tell someone else required a great deal of effort.

"It's okay, Alesha," I said reassuringly. "Look at me for a
moment, please?"

His eyes lifted uncertainly.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," I said gently.

"That's what Mama said. I can't help it."

"I know. It's how we are. So tell me, who's the best looking
man here?" I asked playfully.

He shook his head sullenly.

"Go on," I prompted. "Look around."

"No!" he whispered. "Please don't make me."

"How about the man sitting with the blond woman over there,"
I suggested. "He's good looking isn't he?"

Alesha could not help but look. It was a very quick glance.

"I guess he's okay!" he mumbled, staring down at the
tablecloth again.

"Find someone better then."

"No!"

He looked anyway. However, his eyes moved around the room,
taking in the tables closest to us first. Finally, he settled on
a table that was close to the opposite side of the room. The man
sitting there was unquestionably handsome, but certainly not in
the movie-star category. I wondered whether boys scored men the
same way that we scored boys. Perhaps not, because there were a
few other men in the restaurant who were much better looking in
my opinion. Something else besides appearance had won Alesha's
interest.

"He's very cute," I whispered. "Do you think he has a big
dick?"

"Shhhhhh!" Alesha growled. He glanced back at the table.
When he finally looked back at me, he could not control himself.
He giggled. "Probably."

"Now that man at the next table, the one with his back to
us,... the one in the plaid jacket,... I know you can't see his
face, but do you think he's sexy from behind?"

"He's bald," Alesha giggled.

"So? Women think bald men are sexy."

"But I'm not a woman," Alesha countered. He kept breaking
into giggles.

"Not sexy then?" I teased.

"He's okay," Alesha said scornfully.

"On a scale of one through ten, where would you put him?"

"Heck, I don't know."

"Maybe a five?" I suggested relentlessly.

"I can't see his face! I don't even know what he's like,"
Alesha retorted.

"But you'd rather he had hair," I winked.

"I guess,..." Alesha grinned. "Who do you think is the
cutest guy here, Mr. Beaufort?"

"That's easy. I'm sitting next to him," I said honestly.

"So am I."

"That's very nice of you, Alesha," I chuckled. "Even if it
isn't true."

"It is." He was adamant and it surprised me considerably.

"So what do you like about me?"

Alesha immediately appeared confused. He shrugged, ignoring
my question while he realigned his two forks. I decided to let
the issue go.

"I like you because you're fun to be with," Alesha finally
muttered under his breath.

"But I'm not even close to being a ten in the looks
department, am I?"

"I think you are. Anyway, looks are not all that important
are they?"

"Most people would say they were," I replied.

"So! I'm not some people! I can have my own opinions. It's
like how most people think about the ballet, even a famous
company like the Bolshoi. Like it's glamorous and exciting, when
it's not and no one realizes because they don't understand what
it's like to be a dancer. Being good at ballet is nothing but a
lot of work. If you want to dance, you have to give it
everything. It really doesn't matter how good you look."

"I think that's very true about most things, I agreed.

He used the word 'like' a lot, and he wasn't overly clear in
how he constructed sentences to communicate his ideas, but he had
opinions and he wasn't afraid of sharing them. More than
anything, I enjoyed that he thought about things.

Alesha sat up. His entire being was animated. "Or what
really annoys me is what people say about Balanchine's ballets!"

"What about Balanchine?" I pursued with interest.

The waiter arrived with our food, for me the first course
for the evening, but for Alesha, his entire dinner. He had
bravely ordered the so-called Taste of Russia. It was an
elaborate sampling that included a salad olivier, smoked salmon
blini terrine, shrimp salad, foie gras ballotine with pickled
fruit and sauternes jelly, baby artichoke salad with truffled
vinaigrette, cold borscht and Russian devilled eggs. I had
selected the Pelmeni, a house specialty consisting of Siberian
veal and beef dumplings in chicken broth, mustard, dill and sour
cream.

Alesha waited until we were alone. "His dancers are like
puppets on a string."

I sat up, resting my fork on the side of the plate. For a
moment or two I thought it was his mother talking, but it was
not. This was Alesha speaking from his heart, using the brain
that God had given him.

"Go on," I prompted.

"Well sometimes the dancers' movements are,... well,...
dry,... and stiff, and like their limbs can only move in angles
even when they are trying to flow. It's grotesque, but everyone
says how wonderful it is, so no one has to think for themselves.
And he used to put down the Bolshoi because it was too romantic!"

"Grotesque?" I said with amusement. "Where did you pick that
word up from?"

Alesha grinned. "I used it in a story I had to write for
school. It means,..."

"I know what it means. You're a very bright boy."

He glowered for a moment and then he smiled. "That's another
reason why I like you. You make me feel good about myself."

"You of all people should feel good about yourself," I said
seriously.

I started eating, again absorbed by Alesha's every movement,
wondering what had suddenly changed his mood.

"I was being serious," I said after a while.

"Huh? What about?"

"About you being smart."

"Oh!"

"Is there something wrong with me saying that, Alesha?"

"No." He sighed. "My mother,... I guess,...It's not
important."

"I'm sorry. I don't understand."

"All I'm good for is dancing."

"What?"

"That what she says. I have to dance because that's what I'm
good at."

"Alesha,..." I shook my head. "She's right, you're a
wonderful dancer,... but you're much more than that. You're
exceptionally bright. Have I ever told you that before?"

He giggled. "I think you just did, Mr. Beaufort."

"Dear oh dear. I must have Alzheimers."

"That's really not very funny."

"Okay. Not funny. But you are fun."

Alesha ate slowly, as he always did. From what I observed,
he appeared to savor every bite, chewing thoroughly before he
swallowed. Perhaps it was his secret to staying thin. He could
make a small piece of lettuce last for five minutes. I could
never stand to eat like him, I decided. When he was about a
quarter of the way through his plate, he slowed even further,
spending most of his time talking, or should I say, entertaining
me.

"So what makes a boy a 'ten'?" Alesha finally asked, his
voice lowered.

He had been moving in that direction, but every time he
neared the subject of the nature of the attraction between men
and boys, he veered away. I pushed my plate aside. I drank some
champagne. I settled back to think about my own feelings on the
matter as much as to watch Alesha. From my perspective it was a
simple enough answer, at least at first glance. A boy was a 'ten'
when he aroused me sexually. For that to happen three things were
needed, what I loosely referred to 'body, brains, and beauty',
but not necessarily in that order. Alesha had all three in great
abundance, and much more. Still, I did not relish explaining what
about him I found sexually exciting. He had raised the question
in my 'private room' when he had asked whether I thought he was
'just a little bit sexy?' It had so bothered me that I could not
respond.

"Lots of things," I began vaguely. "Probably much the same
things as you look for in men," I added, hoping to divert his
interest or at least avoid a candid discussion on the subject of
what it took for a boy to be considered sexy by a man.

"Such as?" He was relentless in his curiosity.

"Well, for one thing, I consider intelligence is essential
to having a good relationship," I began, making what I hoped was
a safe start.

"Intelligence?"

"There has to be something besides Nintendo between the
ears," I laughed.

He smiled slightly. "What else?"

"Well,... I expect it's much the same things you look for,"
I said hastily. "Being fun to be with, making me feel good
inside, that sort of thing."

"That's not what other men mean when they say a boy's a
'ten'."

"Oh!"

"Roland and the other boys at the club said that they're
really talking about how sexy a boy is when they score him,"
Alesha confided. "Like is he cute to look at? Does he have a nice
body? Is his peenie big? That sort of thing," he added quietly.

There was no getting around the fundamental reasons of why
men loved boys. In a way, boys had to compete with women, but in
a somewhat different manner. From my experience, or rather
through my acquaintance with married men, very few of them wanted
more than hourglass bodies and an over-rated importance placed on
the size of the breasts. For a lot of boylovers, desirability
seldom went beyond a standard set of 'boy' attributes. For most
men, there was a strong preference for 'cute', blond-headed,
blue-eyed, slender boys. Interestingly, the qualities that made a
boy attractive were largely the same as for a man who preferred
women. Of course, there were also men who looked beyond the
immediate physical qualities of desirability.



"I won't say that's not important for a lot of men," I
agreed. "Because it is. I expect it's also true for me to a
degree, but it's also more than that. "

"Then it's different for you," Alesha mused aloud.

"Different in what way?" I asked.

It was impossible not to be fascinated. For another boy, I
might have said that he was precocious, but not Alesha. He was
gifted in many ways. And this was the boy whose mother claimed
was only good for dancing?

"I think you like a boy for who he is, not what he is, Mr.
Beaufort," Alesha answered sincerely.

I nodded. It was an insight that I had not expected. It was
a nice way of putting it, going beyond those qualities that were
needed for sexual attraction.

"So what am I?" Alesha asked after a while.

"Ha, I was wondering when we'd get to that," I joked. "It's
a little too personal a question for me to answer."

"How about Roland, then? Does he turn you on?" Alesha asked
teasingly. He smirked.

"Roland? Yes, he does do that," I responded wholeheartedly.

"I thought he did. You kept looking at him all the time."

"It was that vest," I rebuked, although I smiled. "I kept
thinking about undoing the lacing."

Alesha smirked. I had not been the only one who had stared
at the open leather vest. Alesha had also been entranced by the
lacing, by the circles drawn around Roland's nipples, by the
little gold ring through the skin above his navel.

"But you also think he's cute, don't you?" Alesha persisted.

I laughed. "Yes, okay, he's cute. On my scale he's probably
a nine-point-eight."

"Oh!" He sounded surprised and just a little bit perturbed.
"And Roland is also very sexy, right?"

""Yes, indeed he is. He's incredibly sexy. However,..." I
paused. His ears pricked up, waiting. "You're off the scale,
Alesha. You're much sexier than he is. That's why everyone at the
club was watching you."

He smiled. He ate a few more bites of food and talked non-
stop about everything except what we had just been talking about.
He ceased talking only when the waiter brought my second course,
Duck Tabaka; a roasted duck breast, leg confit in phyllo, beet
greens, stuffed fig with foie gras, and a rich port sauce. Alesha
looked longingly at the heaped plate.

"Would you like some?" I offered.

He shrugged, pretending to be more than happy with the food
before him. His eyes strayed back to my plate. As much as the
sight of the food, the smell was overpowering his resistance. I
laughed, reached over, picked up his unused fork and handed it to
him.

"Here's the deal, Alesha? If you want dessert, you'll have
to help me eat this."

"You know I don't eat dessert, Mr. Beaufort," Alesha
answered quickly.

"So I couldn't interest you in some blueberry baklava, or a
chocolate souffle. I thought every boy loved chocolate," I
teased.

"I can't afford to have that many calories," he retorted
with a grin that said otherwise.

However, he kept the fork in his hand. I moved the plate so
that it was closer to Alesha. At the same time, he slid a few
inches closer to me. He hesitated, then moved again, bringing his
thigh so that it rested against mine. Was it my imagination that
a little shiver ran through him as soon as our legs touched?

"Try some of the duck, Alesha. It's very good," I suggested.

He grinned and took a tiny portion on his fork. The instant
that it reached his taste-buds, Alesha beamed. He savored every
morsel, even sucking in his cheeks, licking his lips.

"That's so good!" he exclaimed.

"Better than a salad?"

"Much better," he admitted. "May I have some more, please
Sir?"

I laughed loudly, then realizing the people at the table
beside me were staring, I stopped.

"Thank you, Mr. Dickens."

It was then, without any warning at all, not even the
slightest hint of what was forthcoming, that Alesha's left hand
dropped lightly onto my thigh. I am sure I trembled. I kept
eating, aware that he had stopped chewing. Instead, he looked
straight ahead. It would have been funny had it not been so
serious. I swallowed, no longer tasting the food, merely trying
to get it down my throat without choking. I was certain that the
people at the nearby table still watched me after my disturbing
laughter. Could they see what was happening beneath the table? My
heart was pounding, surging with the expectation, that delicious
anticipation of something more. His hand was barely touching my
leg, but it was a committment. What made it particularly exciting
was that it was entirely of his own volition.

"The weather's nice," he said nervously.

He realized the need to convey normality to anyone who
chanced to be watching us from one of the surrounding tables, yet
there was a powerful thrill even in that. I trembled. Alesha's
fingers moved slightly upwards even before he stopped speaking.
Did he realize what he was doing? He was eleven. Was this a game
for him? Seeing how far he could go before I stopped him? What
was he trying to prove? That he was just as sexy as Roland? So
many questions that only Alesha knew the answer for. I smiled at
him and he looked coyly back at me.

"Yes it is, Alesha. It's very nice."

"You don't think it's too hot, do you?" he squeaked the last
few words.

It was all that I could do not to burst out into laughter
once again.

"It does tend to get warmer this time of year," I answered
as calmly as I could.

"Do you think it will get cold again?"

"I hope not. Are you enjoying your dinner?"

Finally, unable to hold back, Alesha giggled. His fork
lifted and scooped up some fig with foie gras. The game was over,
or so I thought. However, his other hand did not move. It rested
there on my leg, his little fingers barely reaching to my inner
thigh.

Suddenly, I realized what was happening, why he had stopped
and gone no further. Like me, he needed to know his touch was
welcomed. Casually, I placed my knife on the side of the plate
and as surreptitiously as possible, eased my hand down beneath
the brocaded tablecloth. I had never touched a boy as furtively
as I touched Alesha's small warm hand. The tips of my fingers
grazed his wrist, drawing gently across his hand to his knuckles.
I paused there, stroking across the knobs of bone. Then down,
fitting my fingers in the grooves between his fingers, pressing
ever so carefully until his fingers spread apart, until the tips
of three of my fingers were between his fingers. He squeezed, not
hard, but firmly enough to show he understood. Then joined
together like that, our fingers interlaced, I guided his hand
upward inch by inch, getting closer and closer until I could
barely stand it.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Beaufort?"

The waiter startled me. Fortunately I managed to resist my
first inclination to jerk my hand back up from below the table.
Could he see our hands? From where he stood, it was entirely
possible if he leaned forward. He topped up my glass with some
more champagne.

"No! Everything is fine," I said meekly. "Isn't it Alesha?"

Alesha, who had suddenly become the little tease, giggled
and quickly nodded his head. We watched the waiter until he was
gone from sight before we both breathed out with exaggerated
gasps.

"Whew! That was close," I muttered.

"Do you think he saw us?"
     "Maybe. I didn't see him until he was right beside me."

"He might have seen us," Alesha countered nervously.

"I don't think he could see past me. That's one advantage of
being so big," I chuckled.

I disengaged our hands and playfully, I gave Alesha's hand
an encouraging squeeze before lifting it the last few inches into
the fold between my thigh and crotch before guiding it across
onto my bulging groin. Alesha's hand trembled under mind when he
recognized what he was touching. He tugged nervously,
uncertainly, responding to instinctive guilt.

"Don't be frightened. You've never touched a man there
before, have you?" I whispered.

He barely moved his head. His hand had not moved, yet he
would surely have jerked it away had I released the pressure of
my hand on his.

"It's okay," I whispered. "Your hand feels very nice."

"What do I do now?" he whispered back.

I detected a note of panic, but what boy does not experience
that curious blend of excitement and fear the first time he
begins to realize his desire. I rubbed his hand gently, hoping to
calm him, to let him know that what he wanted was the same thing
that I wanted.

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

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

"Are you nervous?"

"Who me?" he answered with exaggerated bravado to conceal
his inner confusion.

"Don't be scared," I counseled. "Just relax. Just let it
happen. Let your hand do what it wants to do."

"It wants to go to the bathroom," Alesha joked feebly. "Why
do I feel like this?"

"How do you feel?"

"Like I need to pee."

I smiled. Perhaps he was still too young. "Don't worry. It
will either go away in a while or you'll wet yourself."

Alesha giggled again.

"The best way of getting rid of the butterflies is to take a
good hold," I coaxed as I teasingly pressed my fingers into his.
"Just squeeze it, Alesha."

His hand tightened. His fingers were remarkably strong given
the size of his hand. They pushed into my bulge, compressing my
testicles, trying hard to cup my groin with a hand that was half-
a dozen years too small.

"Well, Alesha, is that better?"

Alesha did not answer. His fingers pressed, exploring,
discovering the strange thrill that every gay boy found sooner or
later. He tested the mound with awkward squeezes, examining the
shape, found areas that were softer, firmer, unyielding to all bt
the hardest pushes. Absently, I lifted my hand away, leaving his
hand there between my legs.

"It feels so big," he murmured. "And it's hot too. It's not
like what I thought it would be like."

Alesha's hand quivered and lifted away slightly.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. My hand keeps shaking and I can't stop it."

"That's because you're excited. Just relax. Just do what you
feel comfortable doing."

"It's getting even bigger."

He sounded strange. He sounded excited, awed, and very
nervous. His body was responding, his heart beating faster,
quickly shedding his inhibitions.

"It's supposed to get that way when you touch it, Alesha."

"I know. I've had erections before," Alesha confided
awkwardly. "Yours is so big. It's huge."

I tried to concentrate on finishing my meal, but it was next
to impossible. Alesha ate a few more bites, including several
that I all but placed inside his mouth. His hand roamed, becoming
increasingly bolder, exploring what made a man so different to a
boy. He did an admirable job of keeping my penis erect, although
by that point he could have accomplished the same thing by
blowing in my ear. I did not encourage him to do more. The time
for that was still a long way off.

We decided to share a dessert, a chocolate souffle with
creme anglaise. With tip, the meal cost as much as Alesha's
mother had been paid for an entire week as a dancer in the second
row.



Act IV Scene III



At shortly after ten o'clock, Dewon was waiting for us at
the car. He hurried to open the door for me. I gestured for
Alesha to proceed ahead of me. Instead, I stopped. So far, the
night had been far too wonderful to end it by simply going home.

"Did you forget something, Mr. B.?"

"I was just thinking, Dewon."

I turned, looking around me. Carnegie Hall had emptied only
minutes before. There were still people everywhere. The city
seemed different, less threatening. Had I ever been this happy? I
felt years younger. I sighed.

"Is something wrong?"

I shook my head quickly. "Dewon, I want to do something
special with Alesha tonight."

He made the natural assumption and smirked, as only a boy
lover can when the topic of sex comes up.

"Do you want me to go park somewhere quiet, Mr. B.? I could
take a hike for a while," he added suggestively.

"Not that," I corrected abruptly. "Appealing though the idea
is, I'm not looking to have sex with him. I want to do something
fun with him. Something he won't forget in a hurry."

"You want I should drive you to the club?"

I shook my head. Neither Alesha or I were dressed
appropriately and it was already late. Besides, I wanted to be
alone with him.

"I took a boy up the Empire State once," Dewon remarked. "He
was a horny little fucker too. We made out in the elevator on the
way down and I nearly got him off. I finished him in the men's
room."

"The Empire State Building?" I mused. "What a good idea.
Could we walk from here, Dewon?"

"I guess. It's what, 'bout 25 blocks. You got to hurry. It
don't close until midnight, I think, but the last elevator up is
like a quarter past 'leven. You sure you wouldn't rather go to
the World Trade Center? The view's a lot better."

"No. Maybe another time, Dewon. I go there too often as it
is. I want somewhere,.... romantic," I said absently. "Besides,
we need to walk our dinner off and the World Trade Center is too
far to go."

"Your best way is to go down Fifth. Probably safer this time
of night as well," Dewon explained. "I'll follow right behind you
if you'd like."



Alesha and I began to walk. After just a few paces, Alesha's
hand slipped into mine. I glanced down, met his eyes, saw
something that had not been there even a day earlier. I squeezed
his hand, played with his fingers, rubbed my thumb into his palm.
Perhaps the people who we passed thought he was my son. I would
have been happy if they thought he was my grandson, a nephew, a
distant cousin. I relished the idea of having him as my son.
Perhaps a very few of the passersby realized there was more
between us than met the eye. Alesha garnered more than an
occasional glance. It was the first time, outside of the club
where such glances were expected, that I had seen that sideways
glance. Both men and women of all ages, showed more than a
passing interest.

When we stopped at a corner to cross the street, Dewon
playfully beeped the horn. The Bentley was the first car we
passed as we crossed the street. Alesha grinned and waved. Dewon
was never further than half a block away, yet other than that
single act, he was so discreet that I found myself forgetting
that he was trailing right behind us.

"Do you like New York, Mr. Beaufort?" Alesha asked after we
had crossed to the other side.

"Hm,... Yes, well most of the time I do. In some ways it's a
lot like Paris, although not nearly as pretty of course. There's
always a lot to do, but sometimes I get tired of all the noise.
And the traffic can be horrendous. Do you like it, Alesha?"

"It scares me sometimes."

"Why?" I asked.

"I think there's too many people. It's like it's ready to
explode. And some people are so weird," Alesha turned quickly.
"Like him," he added under his breath.

We had passed a homeless man, his few belongings in a filthy
canvas bag and a decrepit cardboard box. His clothes were the
source of a sour stale smell that lingered until we were well
past him. His shoes were so brightly polished that they might
have been new that day. That was the anomaly of New York. It had
an abundance of eccentricities and depravities, and a level of
tolerant intolerance that could not be found anywhere else in the
U.S., except Los Angeles.

"I feel that way a lot as well, Alesha. Everyone is in a
rush. Nobody says 'hello' or 'thank you'. It's full of life, but
I'm not always certain that it's always a life worth living.
After a while you become insulated against everything around you.
You stop hearing the sirens and the horns."

"Mama says you either love it or hate it."

"She's right."

"The nice thing is that you can always find a mold to fit
into, no matter how weird you are," Alesha said profoundly.

Suddenly, the eleven-year-old boy was back and he tightened
his grip on his hand, eagerly dragging me to a sporting-goods
store window to show me a bright-yellow mountain bike with tires
so thick that they could have fitted an automobile.

"Would you like one?"

"I've never had a bike, alt least not since we arrived here.
I used to have one in Kiev, Yuri gave it to me, but we had to
leave it there."

"I'm not sure where you'd ride it," I said thoughtfully.
"Peters would be upset if you rode it in the house, and the
streets are much too dangerous."

"Central Park, of course," Alesha answered hopefully. "It's
only a block away."

"Two blocks," I corrected. "I'll think about it, but I'll
have to clear it with your mother first."

"I didn't mean,..." Alesha began awkwardly.

"I know you didn't mean I should buy it, Alesha. But maybe
I'd like to give you something else besides clothes," I said.

Alesha's hand tightened, grasping mine, pulling me to get
walking away from the store. Despite that urgent tug, I suddenly
felt very close to him. Perhaps too close. I had never felt this
way with any other boy. What was different was the strange
sensation in my hand, the warmth that flowed from him to me, the
realization that was gradually dawning in my mind that Alesha
needed me as much as I needed him.

"Did you enjoy the Russian Tea Room?"

"It was great," Alesha replied. He bounced beside me, full
of happiness, skipping every couple of steps. "I've never eaten
that much. It was so good it was impossible not to eat."

"I liked it when the waiter said you were my son," I
continued.

"So did I." A few moments passed. "I don't even know who my
father is."

"Your mother won't tell you?" I pressed gently.

"No."

There was a much longer silence this time. We were walking
quickly, past groups of people meandering past the closed stores,
many tourists still window shopping.

"I wish you were my father," Alesha muttered when we stopped
at the next traffic light.

"That's very nice of you," I began.

Again, he tugged on my hand, always racing ahead. We had to
be the first people to reach the other side of the road. We
passed a jewelry store, its windows brightly illuminated,
displaying a bounty of gold and diamonds worthy of a Tsar, worthy
of Alesha, yet instead he was wearing a single strand of white
beads around his waist.





ACT IV, Scene IV



We took the elevator to the 86th floor's observation deck
and went outside to greet the awe-inspiring view of New York at
night. The City was beneath us, spreading out in all directions.
It was a magical sight, tiny dots of light spreading out as far
as the eye could see. On a clear day, the horizon was eighty
miles away, stretching far beyond the five boroughs into the
comparative blackness of Connecticut.

"It was the result of a personal competition between two
men," I explained for no other reason than the need to talk. "See
that building over there?" Alesha nodded. "That's the Chrysler
Building."

"Like the car company?"

"Exactly. Well, Walter Chrysler competed with the man who
created General Motors, to see who could build the tallest
building. His name was Raskob by the way."

"And the G.M. guy won, because this was the tallest building
in the world for a long while," Alesha said knowledgeably. "Did
he have the best cars too?"

"I don't know about back then. It was a long time ago. For a
long time the best cars were made by a man called Henry Ford.
Anyway, both buildings were built during a time called the Great
Depression, Alesha. That was in the early 1930s, so they are both
what is called Art Deco."

"So that's why the lobby looks a bit like some of the
furniture in your 'private room'."

I was very impressed. My 'history' lesson had taken a very
sudden turn. Here was a boy whose appreciation of style extended
to the intricacies of design.

"How high up are we?" Alesha asked out of the blue.

He craned his neck and looked up, there was still a lot of
building above us, and the final mast-like tower stretched far
above that.

"Hm, I should know that. I think it's just over a thousand
feet to here. We're a bit more than two thirds of the way. To the
very top, it's probably about another four hundred feet."

"How long did it take to build?"

"Probably only a a year or so most. Workers were very cheap
then so it was built very quickly."

"Did it cost a lot?"

"What is this? Twenty questions?" I laughed.

"I'm trying to find out how much you know," Alesha giggled.
"You're an encyclopedia with feet. What's 'twenty questions'?"

"A game we used to play at Harvard years ago. Do you have
any more questions for the walking encyclopedia?" I joked.

"How many windows,...."

"Very funny," I interrupted. "Do you want me to throw you
over the side?"

"You wouldn't because you'd never get away with it. They'd
catch you for sure," Alesha laughed.

"No they wouldn't. There's practically no one else up here,
so there's no one to see me do it."

"I'd scream out your name the whole way down," Alesha
grinned. "Misssstttteeerrrr Beeeaaaauuuufffooorrrttt. For a
thousand feet."

I laughed.

We walked slowly around the perimeter wall, passing the time
by stopping every few paces and trying to identify distant
features.

"Everything looks much smaller from up here," Alesha
observed. "It's not nearly as scary as down on the ground, is
it?"

"Why do you think that is?"

He stood on the tips of his toes, needless to say a
remarkably easy thing for him to do after constant practice en
pointe from the time he had learned to walk. He peered over the
wall to the streets far below.

"Hm,... Because the people are really tiny," he giggled.
"Even the cars are like toys. I think I can see Dewon. See, down
there!" He pointed.

"I think you're right."

I stepped closer, until his back brushed my front.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Alesha murmured. "It's like a
huge game and we're giants who control everything that happens."

"That's an interesting way of putting it," I remarked. "A
bit like Balanchine's dancers being like puppets on a string I
suppose."

"I shouldn't have said that."

"Why not?"

He sighed. "Because everyone I've ever met here likes
Balanchine. You probably do too."

"Honestly, Alesha, I had never thought about it until you
said it in the restaurant."

"You don't agree, though, do you Mr. Beaufort?"

I shrugged. "I don't have the appreciation of ballet that
you do, Alesha. However, I appreciate that you have opinions of
your own. That's very important to me. And the next time we go to
a ballet together, you can point out what I should be looking
for."

When I leaned over his head, I could smell his shampoo. What
was it about the smell of a boy's freshly washed hair that was
guaranteed to send a man like me into instant rapture? The scent
was hard to determine, a peculiar combination that hinted at lime
or some other citrus fruit. Yet there was more to the smell than
that. There was the perfume of some exotic flower, and Alesha's
smell, faint but still refreshingly present. I inhaled deeply.
Until I felt the warmth against me, I was barely aware that
Alesha was pushing back, moving his body lightly to rub against
mine.

"You feel nice," he muttered, almost to himself.

"So do you," I whispered.

"It's strange how they stand there all alone," Alesha said
softly.

He was looking at the twin towers of the World Trade Center.
They were still quite a long distance away, and unlike the
elaborate metal crown of Chrysler building, they provided a
feature that was relatively uninteresting in the night except for
the effect of sheer magnitude. The Statue of Liberty was
infinitely more entrancing, set like a jewel on a sea of black
satin. To my mind, the towers were over-scaled blocks with little
architectural merit except the inherent phallic quality. They
duplicated each other, and as any duality competed for
superiority. In doing so they had become perverse symbols of
American capitalism, an incredible accomplishment even for the
Rockefellers.

"Strange how?" I asked absently.

"Well, all the other tall buildings are kind of grouped
together. They're just there, all by themselves."

"That's true from here. There are a lot of tall buildings on
Wall Street, but the twin towers are so high they stand out."

"When we first arrived, Mama used to say the towers were
like us," Alesha murmured. "It was us against the world. Now it's
you and me. People like us really don't fit in no matter how hard
we try."

I had occasionally thought of the twin towers, like two
enormous penises, to be symbols of the love that dared not speak
its name. Of course, gay liberation had been speaking very loud
since Stonewall, almost pedantically at times, and even
politicians listened nowadays. The love of men and boys was an
entirely different proposition.

"That's an interesting view, Alesha," I said quietly. "Do
you feel like that? Like you're all alone?"

Alesha thought for a moment. "Not any more. I was lonely,
and I didn't understand why, but now I have you. And the boys who
I met at the club," he added pointedly.

"It's nice to know that you're not the only one, isn't it?"
I agreed.

"The towers are a lot taller than this building, aren't
they?" Alesha asked, changing the subject again.

"Yes, a lot taller. They've taken on a special meaning
because of it."

"Like the Statue of Liberty, only different because they're
about capitalism."

Alesha sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

"What's wrong?" I asked with concern.

"I miss my mother. She brought me up here once, just after
we arrived. It was in the afternoon," he added wistfully. "And we
had ice-cream."

"I'm sorry," I said simply.

I almost told him that his mother would be joining us in
Paris for a while once we had settled in. Instead, I held back
that surprise. His mother always seemed to be getting in the way.
Was I being selfish?

He shrugged, pressing back a little harder, moving his head
so that it lay against my chest. Was he that desperate for his
mother's affection? Or was it something different, the first
awareness of an attraction to a man? Whatever it was, it was
becoming very evident that he needed to be hugged by me. Gently I
placed my hand on his bony shoulder. I left it there for a
minute, perhaps much longer.

"Mr. Beaufort?"

"Yes, Alesha."

"Why do people hate us?"

"No one hates you."

"They hate you."

"Why do you say that?" I asked curiously.

"Because they do. They put men like you in jail."

Then, I understood what he was worried about. Someone, more
than likely one of the boys at the club, had told him what had
happened to Lloyd McCue. For a person whose job as an investment
banker required that he was both careful and very responsible, he
had made the fatal mistake of sending pornographic pictures of
his boyfriend to another man. Although I barely understood the
technical implications, the men who knew what had happened to him
told me that he had been using the direct connect feature of an
instant messenger. Little did McCue know, that thanks to the
Internet, the pictures would be on a thousand hard drives by the
end of the day, including a computer at the FBI. It took two
weeks and a dozen subpoenas to catch him.

"That's true, but only if I break the law. So far there is
no law against a man taking a boy to dinner."

"But,... Mr. Beaufort, what happened in the restaurant,
wasn't that against the law?" he asked nervously.

"Fortunately I'm not a lawyer, Alesha, or I'd be the brunt
of even more jokes," I jeered. "However, if my memory's correct
it wasn't me who did the touching."

"So they would put me in jail instead," Alesha concluded.
"So you see they do hate me."

I smiled. "It's a lot more complex than that, Alesha. The
vast majority of people believe that they have to protect boys
like you from men like me. It would be me who gets punished."

He glanced up and gave me an ambivalent look, yet one that
suggested that he thought otherwise. For a moment I thought he
might dispute the subject further, but like most young boys he
had an attention span that could be measured in nanoseconds if
the interest wasn't there. And for Alesha, for most things, what
got his interest seemed to be a matter of random chance.

"If you had a little airplane you could fly right between
the towers. I bet you'd wake everyone up," Alesha giggled.

After the terrorist bombing of the World Trade Center
parking garage several years earlier, I imagined that having a
small airplane weaving between the two towers would scare the
living daylights out the occupants. Before I could say something,
Alesha had changed the topic yet again.

"I knew it was wrong, but I wanted so much to touch you
there," Alesha said quietly. "I don't know why I wanted to. I
just did."

"It's not wrong, Alesha. Wanting to touch and be touched
there, well, that's an important part of being gay," I said
gently. "You can't help it, and neither can I."

"Then they shouldn't put us in jail," Alesha said adamantly.
"It isn't fair!"

"I happen to agree with you, but it isn't up to us. The
thing to realize, though, is that they won't put either of us in
jail if we're very careful."

"But Leigh told me that they just put a man in jail forever
for doing stuff with a boy!"

"It was for ten years, I think, but it should be less with
parole." I smiled weakly. "Besides, remember what I said about
being careful? That man wasn't very careful. He took some
photographs of a boy doing sex things with him. Then he sent them
to someone else, who sent them to another man, and so on. It
wasn't long before the FBI got involved."

"I wouldn't like that to happen to us," Alesha said
nervously.

"I can't promise that it won't, but it's very unlikely!"

"Only because you won't do anything to me!"

"Why do you say that?"

"You always stop," Alesha grumbled.

He stepped forward, breaking the contact between us. Again,
he gazed over the high wall, wedging his hands against the curved
metal rods along the top. He sighed.

"Like in the car last week,... and before we got dressed
tonight. It's always the same."

"Alesha,..." I said softly to his back. I wanted to see his
face.

He ignored me. He was right to ignore me. Far below, a horn
honked. I sighed. It had been so hard to control myself. I wanted
him badly, but I needed to know that he wanted me at the same
time. The realization rose slowly into my consciousness. Deep
within, I had known all along what Alesha wanted. This time, it
was unequivocal. In his own way, he was telling me loud and clear
what he wanted! My heart raced.

"Do you want me to touch you?" I whispered in his ear.

Alesha nodded slightly.

"Here? It isn't a good idea,..."

He turned and glanced cautiously around the observation
deck. There were a perhaps a dozen other people, men and women.
The couples nearest to us were leaving. The rest were necking. We
had caught the last elevator. No one else would arrive. It was
highly unlikely that anyone would see us. Alesha nodded once. He
licked his lips as if he wanted to be kissed, as if he expected
to be kissed. However, I was not going to do that when there was
even the remotest chance of someone seeing us.

"Turn around so you can see the view," I said quietly. "Look
at the towers."

My bulk almost concealed his slender, much smaller body from
view. There was a telescope a few feet away to my right, and the
corner of the wall on our other side. No one could see what was
happening unless they came to use the telescope. There were lots
of other telescopes to choose from. From behind, we would look
like two tourists, a father pointing out the night time sights to
his young son.

Gently I placed my left arm around Alesha's shoulders,
extending my hand outward, pretending to point towards the twin
towers, those monumental symbols of maleness. It was a pity that
Yamasaki, the architect, all five-foot-one-inch of him had not
capped the towers with domes to complete the image of potency. I
drew Alesha's head towards my chest, his left shoulder finding a
home beneath my arm. Then, with our bodies together, I rested my
elbow against his flank and continued to point ahead of him,
towards the giant erect phalluses standing straight and tall in
the distance. My own phallus was also straight and tall,
throbbing relentlessly against Alesha's lower back. I wondered if
he could feel it pressed against him.

"You feel so nice and warm," I said softly.

My head rested lightly on the top of his head, his silken
hair brushing my cheek. The smell was overpowering. His smell,
the lingering fresh smell of his shampooed hair, the complex
smells of New York. We were surrounded by glittering lights, by a
myriad stars above, and an even greater number of lights from
below. At the horizon, the blackness seemed infinite, ground
becoming sky. There was just Alesha and me. It was the two of us
against a hostile world, against a world that did not understand
how men and boys could love each other. He shivered against me.
My arm tightened, drawing him harder against me. Through my arm
partially wrapped around his chest, I could feel his lungs
emptying and filling. We were close enough to be sharing the same
air. I breathed what had come from inside Alesha.

"I can feel your peenie," Alesha giggled.

"You can?" I pretended ignorance.

"It's pushing right into my back."

"I'm sorry."

I eased back slightly to break the contact. Perhaps my
conclusion was wrong after all. On reflection, it did not seem
possible that a boy like Alesha would want me. So few of the boys
who I had been with in the past had even the slightest interest
in me beyond being the person who would give them money if they
did what I wanted.

"Don't stop," Alesha murmured. "It's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"I like feeling him there."

If he had said nothing other than that, I could not have
been happier. He had accepted that my sexual arousal was because
of him. My heart glowed. For the first time I had real proof. But
proof of what? Still, I brought my hips forward again, pushing
cautiously against Alesha's back, my thighs pressing against his
small firm bottom. He squirmed, wriggled, relaxed again. A minute
passed.

"Touch me,... please."

His voice was low, breathy, barely holding back the urgency
that would be there all too soon. He was growing up quickly.

"Alesha?"

"Touch me like I did to you in the restaurant," he said more
insistently.

What was I to do? I eased my right hand down from the
parapet wall, sliding across his side to his belly. My knuckles
scraped slightly against the wall in front of him. I pushed his
jacket out of the way. The tips of my fingers touched the metal
buckle of his belt. My first finger rubbed into the soft silk of
his shirt, pushing the string of tiny rounded beads out of the
way and settling into the little depression of his navel, my
thumb making small caressing circles over his last bony rib. He
was smooth, firm, exuding warmth.

Cautiously, I reached lower, sliding my fingers over his
belt, onto the sleek linen of his chino trousers. My hand had
only travelled a few inches before I felt the tip of his hard
penis. It was pointing up, stiffly, inflexibly vertical, like the
towers we were looking at. Alesha tensed, but did not try to move
away. The instant that my fingers brushed against that little
rounded bulge I realized that he was not wearing underwear.

My hand trembled, gradually easing across the warm fabric of
Alesha's trousers, cupping over his small maleness until it was
compressed against my palm and my fingers pressed gently into his
scrotum.

"Like this?" I whispered in his ear.

Alesha barely nodded. His hips pushed forward, squeezing
against my hand, pushing into the wall ahead of him. I responded
accordingly, pushing my groin firmly against his back, driving my
engorged penis into the curvature of his spine. To me, it seemed
as if my penis was reaching halfway up his back. If it was freed
from my clothes, it might well have touched his shoulder blades.

He made a strange sound, an urgent whimper, soft, anxious,
quivering before me. My hand closed tighter, squeezing that part
of him that wanted so badly to be held. His hips jerked, not with
the force of trying to thrust, but like a vibration. I began to
massage him, varying from soft caresses to nearly brutal but very
carefully controlled grasps of his sensitive parts. It was the
kind of treatment that tantalized a boy's sensations to the point
of being overwhelmed. It was no different to opening his zipper
and taking his bare flesh between my fingers and masturbating him
into a frenzy.

"You feel so good," I murmured. "So hard."

"Uhh,.... Oh,..." he groaned. He breathed though his mouth.
"Don't stop!"

I continued to squeeze his sex, fondling his testicles,
abrading the delicate skin of his penis against the cloth that
kept us apart. He winced when I did it too hard, yet never
vocalized the complain beyond a sudden inhale of breath. Two
quick glances over my shoulder, left, then right, convinced me
that we were not being observed. I kissed the top of his head,
brushing my lips through curly soft hair, pushing harder into his
back, driving his body forward into the immovable barrier of the
wall. Only my hand kept his groin from being crushed.

"I feel,... so strange," Alesha gasped. His breathing was
erratic.

I slowed, kneading his little bulge gently, giving him time
to recover.

"It's supposed to," I said reassuringly.

My hand was still clamped over his throbbing genitals. It
was a momentary relief to catch his breath, to realize the power
that I had over him. It was the only way that I wanted to control
Alesha. I wanted to be the source of his pleasure.

"God, I can't,... stop shaking."

"You've never felt like this before, have you?"

He shook his head urgently. "It kind of hurt. But,... but
it's nice."

He groaned again, shaking with a pre-orgasmic spasm as my
hand compressed his penis mercilessly. He was very tender there,
so close to the edge, in that seldom touched place between his
legs. He breathed deeply, trying to control the surge inside him,
trying to hold back feelings and sensations that were foreign to
him. Yet, he was being carried onward by the flood, helpless,
anxious, wanting for it both to end and to go on forever.

Then, I took a risk that was foolhardy to say the least, but
impossible to resist. I lifted my hand away. It was a momentary
absence. My fingers eased beneath his belt. Alesha realized my
intention. His belly pulled in, like a waif from a third world
country, creating room for my hand to pass close to his right
hip. I slipped my fingers lower, feeling the warm softness of
bare skin beneath the edge of his shirt. Just a little further.
His pubic ridge swelled, still incredibly soft but bony
underneath. My hand moved across, an inch, perhaps two, until I
came into contact with even greater heat. His penis flexed as my
fingers grazed across it, touching his sensitive organ sexually
for the very first time.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I murmured. "Like it exists just
for us and no one else."

Alesha nodded nervously, his mind full of questions, and
confusion. Before us, the world waited, yawning like an enormous
cavern of light and dark, and the infinite unknown. Ahead, rose
two gigantic blocks, some floors still lit, most in darkness. Yet
so proud and powerful, the two steel and concrete towers made by
man were insignificant to the little thing I held so tightly in
my hand.

Very carefully, my fingers pressed into the delicate skin of
Alesha's sleek penis. The skin came down easily at first, but at
the head tried to pass through the opening he winced in pain. I
stopped immediately. It would take time and practice to get that
right. I enclosed his testicles, capturing them between my
fingers, letting them escape, finding them again. They were very
tiny, even smaller than they looked. For once the pouch skin was
loose and soft and hung in moist folds. I had never seen him this
relaxed. It had to be the dancing that made it tighten. I brought
the ends of the strands of beads together, massaging them into
the underside of his penis. There was very little difference in
the size of his testicles and the tiny beads that hung beside
them, only the elongaged shape. I even used the beads to rub his
penis, providing stimulation for both us.

Alesha sighed, yet needing more, he pushed forcefully
against my hand. I began to fondle him, stroking his penis with
my thumb and a single finger, cradling his scrotum protectively.
Within a few moments, Alesha groaned, his hips returning to the
sudden instinctive jerking of before. His entire body seemed to
be quivering before me.

My thumb and fingers squeezed harder, rubbing along his
tender shaft, pushing it against the cloth. He trembled, his
jerking immediately becoming stronger, faster, slower, full of
power. His lithe body twitched erratically.

"Hurts!" he gasped frantically. "Oh,... Oh,....Ohmygod!
Stop! No! No, don't! Don't stop!"

"Let it happen, Alesha," I said soothingly. "Let it out. I
promise it'll be okay. It happens to every boy."

His thrusting was frenetic, awkward, bruising to my hand
trapped between his body and the wall.

"Mr. Beaufort,... it,... uhhhh,.... stop shaking,..."

I gazed down to see his face distorted by the strange
sensation that was building up inside him. He had ceased any
semblance of normal breathing. His mouth was open. His eyes were
shut. A boy's first orgasm was both a fantastic discovery and
unforgettable experience. I wanted it to be even more special for
Alesha.

"This is when I throw you over the edge," I teased.

"Unnhhhh,..." he gasped, shaking his head.

"Open your eyes and look down, Alesha," I breathed urgently.
"I'm going to let you go,... Feel the air rushing past you.
You're going to explode."

His hand clasped my left hand, fearfully, but not of
falling. His body was embraced securely by mine. Orgasm reared up
before him, a threatening chasm yawning open, only seconds to go.
His pelvis slammed back and forth, pumping against my rigid sex,
pulverizing my hand, bringing himself to the very edge. It was
only then that I pulled down on his foreskin. It had to hurt and
I probbaly should not have done it. There was, of course, an
instantly increased degree of looseness in the skin along his
penis, but it was not that which sent Alesha plummeting into the
unknown depths of ecstasy. For the first time in his life a
million highly charged nerves were exposed to more excitement
than a young boy could possibly stand. My thumb pressed onto his
exposed glans, rubbing across the very tip. It jumped, jerked,
and began to pulse. It was over in a matter of seconds. Even
before the last tremor passed though Alesha's body, I had
returned his foreskin to its usual position. I held his throbbing
organ tightly, compressing the tenderness until it was nearly
numb, forcing out the blood, restoring it to limpness.

It was at least a minute before he was completely soft. He
still gasped, as exhausted as I had ever seen him after dancing.

"What happened?" he murmured weakly.

"We'll talk about it on the way home," I answered.


END ACT IV


INTERMISSION