Date: Fri, 3 Jan 2003 07:56:28 -0800 (PST)
From: Tim Mead <timmead88@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dr. Tim and the Boys, ch. 9

Dr. Tim and the Boys

The following story is fiction.  It involves sexually-
explicit erotic events between males.  If you are offended
by such material, are too young, or live in an area where it
is not allowed, don't read it.  In the world of this story,
the characters don't always use condoms.  In the real world,
everyone should practice safe sex.

The author retains all rights.  No reproductions or links to
other sites are allowed without the author's consent.

My thanks go to Tom for his editorial help (and for the
recipe).  Thanks also to Evan, Patrick, Ash, and Tom for
their great ideas and steadfast encouragement. -Tim

timmead88@Yahoo.com
Chapter 9:  The Doctor Examined

                            TIM:

I've just had dinner with Stan.  He is a remarkable person.
Don't get me wrong.  I love Ced and plan to hang on to him
for the rest of my life if I can, but I feel a bit
starstruck.  Here's what happened:

Ced had come by the office, as promised, the day after I
finally got to suck his dick.  There was the usual kissing,
ball-fondling, ass-grabbing greeting, and then we sat for a
few minutes.  He told me that Mark's dad would pick me up at
my place at 7:00 on Saturday evening.  A little embarrassed
about my apartment, I asked Ced to tell Mark that I'd be out
front.  Ced promised to relay the message.

I wasn't sure what to expect.  Ced loves Mark, who does seem
to be a pretty good guy.  He's great looking and smart, that
much I know already.  Ced also seems to have a special
fondness for Stan.  He lights up when he talks about him.

Saturday afternoon I polished my cordovan loafers, pressed
up my newest pair of khakis, and inspected my navy blazer
for lint.  Then I shaved, though I really didn't need to,
and showered.  I wear my hair a little longer than the four
guys who were suddenly so much a part of my life, long
enough to part and comb.  It tends to be wavy, so I don't
let it get too long.  I didn't blow-dry it because that
makes it too fluffy.  I just combed it while it was still
wet.  I've always wished it were another color.  Any other
color.  I have never understood why people fuss about it so.

I suppose I could have worn a suit, but I decided the blazer
was more appropriate for a Saturday evening.  I wore my
usual blue oxford button-down with a green and blue
regimental striped tie.  Once I was dressed, I thought the
total effect terribly preppy, but it was too late to change.
If I really want to look like a professor instead of a kid
in prep school, I could get a tweed jacket with elbow
patches.  I'm not quite ready for that yet, even if I do
look impossibly young.  Oh, speaking of looking too young, I
wore my glasses instead of my contacts.

At 6:55 I was standing on the steps of my building.  Ced
hadn't told me what sort of car Stan would be driving, so I
didn't pay much attention when a bright red Mustang, one of
the classic jobs, pulled up to the curb.  The driver got up
out of the car and came around it toward me.  And there he
was!

Stan must be about 5'8".  He's a little shorter than Ced and
Mark, a little taller than me.  He's bigger in the chest and
shoulders than Mark but has about the same size waist.  He
obviously works out often.  Not muscle bound, mind you, just
a man who takes very good care of his body.

He was wearing a khaki-colored suit of what I guessed was a
tropical worsted fabric.  It obviously didn't come off the
rack.  He had a shirt the color of denim, but it looked to
be some fine, silky cotton.  His tie had a pattern of little
chain links in dark blue and silver against a gold
background.  He, too, was wearing cordovan loafers, but his
were Italian and probably cost four times as much as mine.

His curly hair had at one time been black like Mark's, but
now it was liberally sprinkled with gray, not just at the
temples, but all over.  He looks a lot like Mark, too, but
he wears a carefully-trimmed mustache and goatee, both with
more gray than the hair on his head.  He and Mark have the
same intense blue eyes, but Stan's are arresting,
mesmerizing, incredibly sexy.

I was taken by his looks, by a magnetism that I sensed
immediately, and most of all by those eyes.  I was startled
when he asked, "Dr. Mead?"

"Oh," I said, flustered.  Extending my hand, I continued,
"You must be Mr. Mason."

When he smiled I noticed that he did not have dimples.  Mark
must have gotten them from his mother.  But the smile was
breathtaking.  This was a man who could have just about
anything he wanted, I suspected.

"Please, Mark's friends all call me Stan.  I hope you will,
too."

"Right, Stan, and, as I'm sure you know, it's Tim."

He smiled again, gesturing toward the car, and said, "Yes,
Tim, I've heard a lot about you."

I could feel that damned blush coming from my chest to my
face.  He obviously knew the story.  "I dare say you have, "
I said as I got into the Mustang.

To change the subject, when he got behind the wheel, I said,
"Great car!"

"She's a lot of fun, but she's pretty demanding at her age.
I'm lucky to have a mechanic who can still find parts for a
66 model and knows how to treat her right."

As he pulled out into traffic and headed toward the edge of
town, where Stefan's was located, he said, "Tim, I couldn't
help noticing your blush.  I do know that whole sorry story,
and I want to say up front that I've told those guys I could
kick their butts for what they did.  Except Ced, of course.
But I also know how you and Ced extracted a moderate and
wonderfully appropriate revenge from each of the culprits."

Not knowing quite what to say, I waited.

"So, I didn't mean to embarrass you.  I hope we can have a
pleasant evening and get to know each other better."

During the rest of the drive to the restaurant we chatted
about the Indians' prospects for the coming baseball season.
He asked if I had seen them play in Jacobs Field, and I said
I had.  We talked about what a nice facility that was.  Then
he wanted to know if I had seen the reinstated Browns play
in their new stadium by the lake.  I said I hadn't.  He said
it was a nice facility, too, but that he was a Steelers fan.
We joked about the Browns-Steelers rivalry for a few
minutes.  And then he pulled up to the porte-cochere at
Stefan's.

The parking valet was obviously a university student.  He
wore a maroon golf shirt with the Stefan's logo and khaki
pants.

"Good evening, Mr. Mason.  It's nice to see you, sir," he
said, giving Stan a big smile.

"Hi, Drew.  How's your mother?"

"Oh, she's fine, sir.  She started back to work last month.
I'll tell her you asked."

Stan handed Drew the keys and a bill.

"You won't need a claim check," Drew said.  "I'll just bring
your car up when you're ready."

I was impressed.  Stan lived in Meadville, over the border a
little way in Pennsylvania.  Why would he know a college guy
here at the university?  Well, it was none of my business.

The maitre d', whose name turned out to be Maurice, greeted
Stan with enthusiasm.  "Bienvenu, mon cher Monsieur Mason.
It's a pleasure to have you with us this evening."

"Hi, Maurice," Stan said.  "This is Dr. Mead, of the
university faculty."

I was about to offer him my hand when Maurice bowed slightly
and said, "I am happy to make your acquaintance, Dr. Mead.
Bienvenu a Stefan's."

"Thanks, Maurice, it's good to know you."

He led us quite a way back through the restaurant, which was
nearly full on a Saturday evening.  The clientele was well
dressed, and there was a subdued hum of conversation.  Our
table was in an alcove beside a window that looked out on a
small lake.  "This is the table you requested, I believe,
Mr. Mason."

"Exactly, Maurice.  Merci infiniment!"

"De quoi, m'sieu.  Your server this evening, again according
to your request, will be Kent.  He will be here momentarily
to take your drink orders."

Kent appeared almost immediately.  Maurice was wearing a
tuxedo.  The wait staff wore the whole formal rig except for
the jacket.  So there was Kent with white wing-collar shirt
with studs, black pants, and black loafers.  There was Kent,
blond with brown eyes, 6'2", a knockout.

"Mr. Mason, good evening, sir.  It's nice to have you with
us."

"Kent, babe, how ya doin'?"  Stan reached over and took
Kent's right hand in his left and held it for a minute.
"It's nice to see you, too.  Did you debaters have a good
season this year?"

Kent beamed down at Stan and said, "Yeah, we only lost
once."

"Good man."

"Can I get you and your, uh, friend something to drink?"

"I'm sorry, " Stan said.  "This is Dr. Timothy Mead of the
university English Department.  Tim, this is Kent Statten."

Kent smiled and said, "Oh, you're `The Iceman'!"  Then he
looked stricken and said, "Ohmygod, I can't believe I said
that.  I'm sorry, Dr. Mead."

Stan and I both howled, causing people to look our way.
"It's OK, Kent," I said.  "I plead guilty."

"Look, professor," he said, still embarrassed, "I really AM
sorry.  Maurice would have my tail if he knew I'd said
that."

"No problem.  You're on the university debate team? "  He
nodded.  A light bulb went on in my head.  "Oh, then you're
a friend of Mark's."

"Yeah, that's how come I happen to know Mr. Mason here."

"Yes," Stan said, "but I always ask for Kent when I'm going
to be at Stefan's.  He's going to be a first-rate lawyer.
He's already first-rate at this job."

"Thanks, sir.  Now that I've made a first-rate fool of
myself, can I take your drink order?"

"Tim, what's your pleasure?  I understand you're a beer
drinker."

"Actually, Stan, I drink beer with the guys, just to fit in.
I'd really rather have a  glass of wine, a chardonnay maybe.
I'm still learning about wine."

"Chardonnay it is, then.  Any preference?"

"You can help me here, I think.  Let's have something you
like but that's not outrageously expensive, so I could
afford it again later."

"Have you tried Kendall-Jackson?"

"Yeah, nice stuff."

"Kent, how about a bottle of the Guenoc?  I think Dr. Mead
may like that."

"Coming right up, gentlemen."

Kent was back soon with hot French rolls, butter with what
looked like chive in it, and the wine.  Stan went through
the whole silly sniffing and tasting and approving ritual,
but he did it with a gleam in his eye which said to me that
he knew it was pretentious.

"I'll be back in a minute with your salads," Kent said.

"Hey, Kent," Stan said.  "Take your time.  We'd like to have
a fairly slow pace this evening.  Dr. Mead and I have a lot
to talk about."

"Got it, Mr. Mason.  A slow pace it is.  I'll check back
later to see if you're ready for your salads.  And then I
can take your orders for your entrees."

"Perfect, Kent, thanks."  Then, after the server was gone,
he said, "Tim, I'll bet you're wondering what this is all
about."

"I confess I had wondered after Ced called me to set this
up."

"I don't want to spoil the evening with too many questions,
but I'm curious about this man who has suddenly appeared in
Mark and Ced's lives.  I'd just like to get to know you
better.  OK?"

This was beginning to seem a little pushy, but I shrugged my
shoulders and said, "Sure, why not?"

I took a piece of roll, slathered some of the nearly-white
chive butter on it, and tasted it.  I closed my eyes and
smiled in appreciation.  Then I had a sip of the chilled
chardonnay.  Heaven.  Assistant professors don't get to live
like that.  I decided to keep some good wine in the fridge,
but there was no way I could have rolls and butter like this
at home.

When I opened my eyes, Stan was - I can only call it
"sparkling" at me.  "Good?"

"Oh, yeah.  The chardonnay's excellent.  Stan, this is a
real treat.  So what do you want to know about me?"

"Well, Tim, I already know a good deal.  You were a pretty
fair thin-clad at Kenyon.  You graduated from there summa
cum laude in English.  You dated regularly but were never
really serious with anyone.  Then you went to Stanford,
where you took your Ph.D. in, let's see, dos Passos?"

I was amazed.  "How could you possibly know all of that?"

"There's an awful lot of material out there on the web, you
know."  Then he winked at me and said, "And my friend
Randall Clarke was pretty helpful, too."

"You know Dr. Clarke?"  Randall Clarke was - still  is, for
that matter - the head of the English Department at Kenyon.
He was a real friend to me when I was there.  He's the one
who encouraged me when I asked if I had what it took to get
a Ph.D. and teach at the university level.

"I'm on the Board of Trustees at Kenyon, so I know a number
of faculty members there.  But Randy and I were undergrads
together at Oberlin.  All it really took was a phone call to
my old friend."

Kent brought our salads, mixed field greens with some sort
of wonderful, light, lemony vinaigrette.  "Kent," Stan said,
"the way my friend here has been tearing into those rolls, I
think you'd better bring us some more."

"Right away, sir," Kent said.  I noticed that he had a nice
package as well as a nice smile.

"Stan, I'm sorry.  Have I been pigging out?"

"Not to worry.  It's good to see you enjoying your meal.
Either you are very hungry, or else you have the kind of
metabolism the rest of us only long for.  I'll bet you can
eat whatever you want and don't have to worry about your
weight."

"Yes.  My mother says I eat like a cormorant.  But sometimes
I just don't feel like eating, and then I'm likely to skip a
meal or two.  It doesn't seem to make much difference
whether I eat or not.  My weight stays the same."

"Well, just make sure you eat healthily.  When you live
alone, as I can tell you, it's pretty easy to rely on junk
food, fast food, and pizza."

I laughed and said, "I think you just summed up my diet."
After pausing to take another forkful of salad and a sip of
wine, I continued, "Now, Stan, tit for tat.  How about you?
I know from Mark that you are the city manager in Meadville,
that you have a son you must really be proud of, and that
Cedric thinks you're the greatest thing since sliced bread."

Laughing, Stan sipped his wine and said, "Oh, yes.  I'm
really proud of Mark.  I couldn't ask for a better son.  It
wasn't easy for him after his mother and I divorced.  She
left me, you know.  She found a guy more to her liking, so
at least I haven't had enormous alimony payments.  She got
custody, for the usual reasons.  Mark and I were always
close, though, and when he was old enough to do so legally,
he chose to come and live with me."

It was about then, I think, that Kent appeared
unobtrusively.  "Would you gentlemen like more time, or are
you ready for the menus?"

When Stan indicated our readiness, Kent disappeared,
returning almost at once with the menus.  Then he recited a
long list of the evening's specials without any faltering.
"I'm impressed, Kent," I said.  "I can't seem to get my
students to remember four rules for using commas, and you
just ran through all those specials without a hitch."

Stan laughed and said, "It's a matter of motivation, I
suspect."

Neither of us needed to spend time over the menus as we both
ordered one of the specials, Stan opting for tournedos of
beef while I chose salmon.

When Kent had left, Stan asked, "Can I make any assumptions
about your political views because you did your dissertation
on dos Passos?"

I smiled, leaned back, and said, "Stan, I had better warn
you.  You shouldn't ask me about dos Passos.  I tend to talk
forever when people do that.  So, I'll just answer your
question and then bite my tongue, ok?"

He grinned and nodded.

"I could say that I chose JDP because, aside from Joyce and
Faulkner, he did more fascinating things with narrative
technique, point of view, and the like than any twentieth-
century novelist.  And that would be true."  I paused and
glanced at Stan.

He was attentive, obviously waiting for me to continue.
"But, yes, I confess, I admire his political views, too.  My
father calls me a P.L.S."

Stan raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"Pissy liberal shit."

"Well, Tim, wasn't it Wendell Willkie who said, `If a man
isn't a liberal at twenty, there's something wrong with his
heart.  If he's still a liberal at thirty, there's something
wrong with his head'?"

"Yes," I replied.  "So tell me Stan, did Willkie get
elected?"

He roared at that, leaned forward, looked me in the eye, and
said, "So the Iceman has a heart.  Tim, I think you and I
will do just fine."

It had gotten dark outside, and lights had come on along a
path leading down to the water.  I saw a couple, both
smoking.  She was sitting on a bench, he standing beside
her, looking across the lake.  Though they were clearly
together, they seemed at that moment oblivious of each
other. I felt the poignancy of their being somehow connected
yet so obviously apart and thought of new connections and
impending disconnections in my own life.

Across the room I spotted Gwen Fairchild with a man I didn't
know.  She was stunning, as usual, in a dress of soft wool
in a Wedgwood blue.  She wore a very expensive-looking scarf
of white, Wedgwood, and navy.  They were having an animated
conversation, and I could tell from her expression that she
was enjoying herself.  She looked across the room at us and
wiggled her fingers in a wave.  I started to wave back until
I realized she was waving at Stan, who, with a dazzling
smile, lifted his glass to her.

Stan topped up our glasses.  "You sure you're not minding
this inquisition?"

"I seem to be surviving.  What's next?"

"Cedric's next.  He and Mark have been rooming together
since they were freshmen.  I think you know why Ced and I
have a special connection."

"You mean because you're both . . ."

"The word is `gay,' Tim.  You can say that here.  I asked
for this table because we have complete privacy.  You may as
well get used to saying it.  Yes, Ced and I share something
that Mark and I can't share.  I think of him as a second
son."

"And Mark's OK with all of this?"

"Mark's amazing.  He loves us both.  He's always been
perfectly accepting about my being gay."

"Is Mark as straight as he seems?"

Stan looked at me directly.  The twinkle was gone, for the
moment, replaced by a steely look.  "Yes."  A warning,
perhaps?

Thinking that, dammit, two could play at this game, I said,
"We're supposed to be getting to know each other, but you're
doing all the asking, and I'm doing all the answering."
Giving him my best effort at a steely gaze, I continued,
"Would you like to tell me what you mean when you say Cedric
is like a son to you?"

Stan raised both hands, palms out, and said, "Whoa, Tim,
I've offended you.  Let me apologize.  I've obviously
overstepped the bounds.  I AM asking too many questions, and
the look I just gave you was pure instinct, a dad protecting
his son.  Both the questions and the look were out of
order."  He twinkled at me again.  "Forgive me?"

I was only partially mollified, but what could I do?  Then
something occurred to me.  "Stan, apology accepted.  You
know, it's funny.  Here you've been suspecting that I'm some
sort of a letch fooling around with one of his students and
perhaps with designs on Mark, too, while I just wondered if
you were a dirty old lusting after his son's roommate."

He laughed. "Tim, as I said, the look I gave you WAS
inappropriate.  Maybe it would help if I told you a story.
You game?"

"Is this a parable, Stan, or a true story?"

"Pure autobiography, I'm afraid."

I put my salad fork down and nodded for him to go ahead.

"Not long after I moved to Meadville, I had an affair with a
very young professor at Allegheny, which you know is in
Meadville, don't you?"

"Oh, yeah, I ran against them when I was at Kenyon."

"I say it was an affair, but I really thought it was more
than that.  His name was Leigh.  Much taller than me, Nordic
type, blond, blue-eyed, broad shoulders and no hips at all.
He teaches music theory.  Still there."

"Sounds nice."

"Oh, he was nice all right.  The sex was fantastic, but it
was much more than that.  We enjoyed doing things together,
going to concerts, the theater, art galleries.  I arranged
my vacation time so that he and I could travel together.  We
walked down the Castro in San Francisco,  we went to a gay
resort in St. Petersburg.  I took him to Paris and London.
We always wanted to go to Key West, but never made that
trip.  We talked books and music and history and politics.
He helped me in the garden."

"That sounds pretty wonderful."

"Tim, I loved Leigh.  I thought we had something really
special, as corny as that sounds.  But it turns out he was
more interested in what I could buy for him and the places I
could take him than he was in me."

"That must have been painful.  So you broke it off?"

"Not exactly.  Leigh spent so much time at my place, he was
hardly ever in his apartment.  Or so I thought.  Turns out
he had a coed living there.  He got her pregnant and then
married her.  I see them both occasionally.  Meadville's too
small a place for me to be able to avoid them entirely."

"Stan, I'm sorry.  Leigh sounds like a real jerk."

"You could say that.  I have to tell you, I was really
shaken to think that he could betray me like that.  And I
never had an inkling of what was going on.  Not to sound
like cheap fiction, but I felt so `used.'"

"Has there been anyone since?" I asked.

"Just for casual sex once in a while.  But I need a good man
in my life.  You know, someone for the long haul.  It still
hurts a lot because I thought Leigh was the guy."

`So the poised, polished, charming, super-confident Stan
knows what it's like to be thrown over, knows what it's like
to hurt,' I thought.  I suddenly felt a great surge of
affection for him that I had not felt before.

He continued, "The point is that I won't allow anything like
that to happen to Ced.  I couldn't stand for him to have to
go through what I went through.  After being with you this
evening, Tim, I've seen enough of you to know that you
aren't a letch."

He looked me in the eye and gave me a rather sad smile, "I
hope you can give me the benefit of the doubt, too.  As you
know very well, Ced is the kind of kid any father would be
proud of.  He's brilliant.  He's a fine athlete.  Most
important, though, he has one of the sweetest natures of
anybody I've ever known.  I think I was able to help him
when we first met three years ago and he told me about being
gay.  I've met his parents, who are delightful folks, by the
way, and enlightened people.  They've never given him a hard
time over being gay.  But he found it helpful to talk to an
older man who also happened to be gay, something his real
dad can't do for him.  We've had many talks since.  But I
couldn't any more fool around with him than I could with
Mark.  Does that allay your suspicions?"

"Yes, Stan, it helps enormously.  That instant stab of
jealousy surprised me.  It must be an indication of how
completely I love Ced.  You deserve to know that I'm ready
to make any kind of commitment to him he wants, including
coming out if he wants that.  I'll do whatever it takes to
hang on to him."  I reached over and put my hand on his.
(To hell with Gwen!)  "And for what it's worth, I hope you
find your guy."

 He smiled again, this time with more of his usual sparkle.
"Thanks, Tim, I appreciate that.  And I wish only the best
for you and Ced.  It isn't going to be easy for you two, but
if you love each other as much as you both say you do,
you'll work it out as you go along.  And a really great guy
is worth making some sacrifices for, if necessary."

The first thing I picked up on was that Ced must have told
Stan he loves me!  I felt the blush coming.  Then I felt
moisture in my boxers.

Stan couldn't know about the leaking, but he saw the blush.
"That blush does you credit, Tim.  It tells me more than
words how you feel about young Cedric."

The intensity of that exchange forced the conversation to
more general topics for a while.  I asked about Oberlin, and
Stan talked about the college as he remembered it and as it
had become lately.

Then he said, "Tim, now I am really reluctant to ask you any
more questions.  In the cause of growing a friendship,
however, would you tell me a little about your family?"

By this point it would have been surly of me to refuse.  And
I did want to pursue a friendship with this man.  "Well, I
grew up in Belpre, and my folks still live there.  Ever hear
of Belpre?"

"Sure, it's near Marietta, just across the river from
Parkersburg.  I know Rudy Mayhew, the mayor."

"Why does that not surprise me?" I asked, smiling.

"So, go on, please."

"Dad's a chemist.  He's always worked across the river at
the Dupont plant.  Mom was a nurse when they met, but she
quit working when I was born."

"And how would you describe your relationship with your
parents?  Or am I getting too personal?  I DO have a reason
for asking."

I could imagine what the reason was.  It seemed reasonable
for one gay man getting to know another to ask about
childhood experiences.  I just hoped that sometime I'd get a
chance to ask him similar questions.  But this was his
party.  And it WAS good to be able to talk about this with
him.  I'd apparently been repressing so much that I'd never
talked with anyone about my sexuality until Ced practically
burst into my life.  And he and I had been too busy doing
things to each other to talk much about ourselves.

"Mom's a dear," I said.  "As an only child, I think she
dotes on me.  She was glad I went to college in Ohio, hated
it when I was in California for three years, and is happy
I'm back in the state.  She plays bridge and golf and loves
to shop and redecorate the house."

"And your dad?"

"He's always been pretty much into his work.  He's active in
the church and in Kiwanis, likes to play golf on weekends.
To be honest, I think I've always been a disappointment to
him.  He would have liked a rugged, jock-type son.  Don't
get me wrong, I know he loves me, and I couldn't have gotten
my education without his help.  But he and I just can't seem
to find much to say to each other.  I'd characterize him,
now that I think about it, as, let's see, supportive,
genial, and remote.  Knowing him, though, he'd probably be a
lot less genial and considerably more remote if he knew I'm
. . . ."

"Tim, you've got to get used to saying it.  You're gay."

"Well, I've had some pretty good straight sex, too, Stan.
So the more accurate term would appear to be `bi'."

He smiled.  "I stand corrected, professor.  `Bi' it is.
Now, may I ask one or two more questions before I let you
off the hook?"

I took the last roll from the basket and nodded.

"What about church?"

"Mom and Dad are Methodists.  In Belpre that means, among
other things, that you believe every word of the Bible is
the `inspired word of God.'  I was made to go to Sunday
school and church every Sunday of my life.  In college, I
got away from all of that, so I guess right now I'd have to
say I'm nothing, agnostic maybe."

"You must have some sort of ethical system."

"I should hope so!  After all, you don't have to be
religious to be ethical.  The Greeks knew that.  In fact,
doing what you know is right because it IS right strikes me
as being more admirable than doing something for fear of not
going to heaven."

About then Kent showed up with Stan's tournedos and my
Alaska salmon.

"Can I get you gentlemen another bottle of the Guenoc, or
perhaps something else?" Kent asked.

"No, Kent, thanks.  I'm driving, and I suspect Dr. Mead's
had all he wants, too, right, Tim?"

I realized I must have had at least three glasses of the
wine.  Not wanting to make a fool of myself with this man, I
said, "Right!  I've had plenty, thanks."

I picked up my fork, broke off a chunk of the tender salmon,
and tasted bliss.  Stan was concerned for a few moments with
his beef.  Then he looked at me.

"How is it?"

"Oh, man!  A guy could get used to this."

We busied ourselves for a few minutes, tasting each item on
our plates.  Then I took the opportunity to find out more
about my host.

"Stan, weren't you, or aren't you a lawyer?  I think I
remember Mark saying something about that."

"Yeah, after Oberlin I went to Michigan, was on the Law
Review there.  As soon as I passed the bar, I was hired by a
big firm in Pittsburgh and did corporate law work for twenty
some years."

"What happened?  Why did you quit?"

The mixed grilled veggies were tender-crisp, perfect with
the salmon.  I also had a goodly portion of rice that tasted
like perfume, so I left it.  Stan had some sort of potatoes
that looked as if they had been shredded and then maybe
fried like a potato cake, very brown and crisp.  He, too,
had the mixed vegetables.

We occupied ourselves again with the food, glancing at each
other often and making appreciative noises.

"Where were we?  Let's see.  Why did I quit lawyering?  Made
a pile of money.  And was bored out of my gourd!  So I
decided to get out before I fossilized."

I took another forkful of the salmon, which had a tart mango
chutney topping, and waited for him to continue.

He put down his knife and fork and leaned toward me.  "Tim,
I realized I was helping fat cats get richer.  I had already
made more money than I'll ever need.  Why should I spend the
last 25 years of my working life making more just so I can
leave it to Mark, who probably won't ever need it anyway?"

We both chewed thoughtfully for a moment, and then he
continued.  "I had felt for some time that I wanted to be
more useful, to `put something back,' as they say.  Then one
day I bumped into a friend from my Michigan days.  He was
teaching at Allegheny.  We had dinner together, and I was
telling him about my restlessness, about wanting to get into
something more satisfying.  That's when he told me that
Meadville was looking for a city manager.  He pressed me to
apply for the job."

"So you did, and the rest is history," I said.

"Well, to apply took a lot of soul-searching and maybe more
courage than I thought I had.  I talked it over with Mark.
He's the one who finally convinced me that I should do it.
He said, `Pops, I think you should go for it!'  So I did."

Suddenly I envied Mark and Stan their relationship.  Stan
was obviously, and from what I could observe, for good
reason, proud of Mark.  Mark's acceptance of Stan and his
encouraging his dad to make a significant career change were
evidence that he loved and honored his father.  Ced, too,
obviously loved this man.

As I worked on my salmon and vegetables, avoiding the --what
was it?  "jasmine rice"-I watched Stan eat, aware as I did
so of his power, his magnetism.  I felt wistful somehow.
And then something occurred to me.  I was obviously being
checked out.  Why?  Could it be that I was being weighed for
inclusion?  What a thought!

I put my knife and fork parallel on the plate and sat back.
Just as I did that, Stan looked at me directly and I knew!
I was right.  I was on the verge, at least, of being
accepted into this man's life.

He placed his silverware on the plate, leaned back, and
smiled.  Neither of us said anything.

Unobtrusively, Kent was back, clearing.  "Would you like to
see the dessert menu?"

Stan looked at me.  "Tim, I'm going to take a liberty here.
Let me order dessert?"

"Hey, Pops, go for it!"

Kent looked puzzled, especially when Stan roared with
laughter.

"Ced's found himself a treasure!.  I should explain that the
menu here at Stefan's is pretty eclectic.  But Stefan
himself is Austrian, and, despite the length of the dessert
menu, on your first visit here, you have to have the
Sachertorte."

"With some coffee, perhaps?" Kent asked.

"Sounds great," I said.  Then, when Kent was gone, I
continued, "Stan, this has all been wonderful.  The food has
been extraordinary, especially for this very junior
professor.  And I think I see why Ced is so fond of you.
It's been a real treat getting to know you.  But look, I'm
still not sure I understand why you've gone to all this
trouble."

"Before I answer that question, let me just say something
else about my job change a few years ago."

"Please."

"Tim, life is full of opportunities.  We never know what
doors are going to open up for us.  We have to be willing to
go through those doors, to find out what's possible on the
other side.  Life is too damned much fun to hang back.  On
the other hand, we can't give ourselves over entirely to
fun.  We have to act responsibly.  We have to commit
ourselves to others and do what we can to help them.  Are
you with me?"

"I understand what you are saying, and, for what it's worth,
I agree with you absolutely."

He beamed at me.

"I think I've found out what I needed to know."

I was still puzzled, and I must have looked it.

"It's like this, baby.  Mark told me all about those really
nasty things the guys did to you.  I think he learned a
valuable lesson from all of that, but it was at your
expense.  I admire you for thinking that they needed some
sort of payback.  I also admire you for your moderate
response.  So I was prepared to think you might be a pretty
decent sort.   But they told me about your being called "The
Iceman."  So, I had an image of some sort of stern, older
guy.  And when I learned that Ced was head over heels in
love with you, I was worried.  I had to find out for myself
who he had gotten himself hooked up with.  So, this evening
was to check out Ced's new lover.  Besides that, as unlikely
as it seems, you appear to have become a good friend of Mark
and Trey as well.  I just HAD to find out about you.  Do you
mind too much?"

I laughed.  "That depends on whether I pass the test."

Kent showed up with the sinfully rich dessert.  This once I
was glad for my inefficient metabolism, as I enjoyed every
bite.

"Tim, there's just one more question on the exam, perhaps
the stickiest one."

"And that would be . . . ?"

"I understand you are engaged."

Woops!  "Yeah."

"Forgive me, but what's with that?  You're having a hot
relationship with Ced,  and you're engaged to someone?"

"Guilty as charged, counselor, `guilty' being the operative
word."

He waited, obviously expecting more.

"This whole thing has thrown me for a loop.  Two weeks ago I
would have denied that I'm bi."

"You want to tell me about that?"

It was a rhetorical question, but I considered it anyway.
Did I want to tell him?  Yes, he was just the person I COULD
talk to about it.

"Briefly, then.  When I was a young teen, I was attracted to
other guys.  But growing up in southern Ohio you learned
early on that homosexuality was an abomination.  So I told
myself that those urges were the devil's work and squelched
them.  I dated various girls in high school, lost my
virginity, and had sex with several of my dates.  In
college, I continued the pattern.  I just sort of assumed
that's the way things were supposed to be.  I enjoyed women,
enjoyed being with them and talking with them and, face it,
screwing them.  If I ever caught myself looking at another
guy, I just told myself to forget that and get back on
track."

Stan hadn't moved.  He sat there, smiling at me, silently
encouraging me to continue.  Sexy!   I smiled back.

"Where was I?  Oh, yes.  I realize I've got to tell Amy.  I
owe it to her to let her know as soon as possible.  I've
just had so much to think about.  I still can't believe how
suddenly I accepted the gay side of my nature.  Ced just
bowled me over, and I loved it.  I love him.  I hope I never
lose him.  But what to tell Amy?  How to tell Amy?  I just
haven't figured out how to do it."

"Tim, you've got to tell her, and soon.  She deserves that.
And there's something you may not have considered."

"What's that?"

"How do you suppose Ced feels, knowing that you're having
sex with him but haven't broken off your engagement yet?"

"My God, Stan.  I hadn't thought of that!"

He reached over and put his hand on mine.  Again, I thought
of my senior colleague across the room.  And again I didn't
care.  I reveled in this man's strong hand on mine, in the
power I felt from it.  At that moment, everything was so
good I was beyond worry.

"So, Tim, out of concern for your lover and for Amy you've
got to break it off right away."

"Stan, you're right.  Thank you.  I've been so mixed up with
all of that, I've forgotten what's right and decent.  I'll
call Amy tomorrow.  I hate to do it over the phone, but I
can't possibly get to Indianapolis before a week from today,
and that's too long, isn't it?"

"Yeah, you can't put it off that long.  I know you'll find
the right thing to say to her."

"I'd rather not tell her I'm gay, Stan.  She'd tell her
parents, and they'd tell everybody, including my parents,
and I'm not ready to deal with that -- yet."

"Why don't you just tell her you've found somebody else?
That wouldn't be a lie, and that's all she really needs to
know, except, of course, that you are sorry you've put her
through all of this."

Feeling guilty for being so happy with Ced and for being
such a rat to Amy, I said, "Thanks, Stan.  I appreciate this
wakeup call."

We sipped the last of our coffee.   Stan looked at me, very
serious now, and said, "I think young Cedric is pretty
lucky.  But so are you, you know."

I said, "Yeah, Stan, I know."

Kent brought the check, which Stan glanced at briefly.
"Thanks, Kent.  I'll tell Maurice what a great job you did,"
he said, handing over a pile of money.

"Thanks, Mr. Mason.  I'll be right back with your change."

When Stan said, "No need, babe," I thought Kent was going to
pass out.  Apparently the tip was hefty.

Stan did catch Maurice, compliment him on the food, thank
him for the special table, and mention what an attentive job
Kent had done.  Outside, Drew spotted us before we saw him.
"I'll have your car here in just a moment, Mr. Mason," he
said, already trotting away.

Stan slipped him another bill as he got into the Mustang.  I
climbed in beside him, and we purred away.

"Tim," he said, "you might think about getting a dark green
blazer, you know, like the winner's jacket at the Masters'.
It would be great with your eyes and that gorgeous hair.
You'd have to fight `em off."

I laughed.  "I never thought of a green blazer.  Thanks,
Stan.  If you think I should, I'll be sure to look for one."

"Yeah, hot stuff, and take Ced with you when you shop."

"Hey, that would be fun."

"Oh, and Timmy, get some decent dress slacks.  Forget the
khakis when you're spiffing up."

"Yes, Pops," I said.

He beamed at that.  Then we were quiet for a while. I think
we were both too full of good food and wine to talk much
more.  And I had plenty to think about.

When he pulled up to the curb in front of my apartment, I
thanked him again, telling him what a treat the evening had
been and how much I had enjoyed getting to know him.

He reached over, put his right hand behind my head, pulled
me toward him, and gave me a big, passionate, wet kiss!  I
almost passed out, first with surprise and then with the
heat of it all.  When he let go of my tongue and my head, he
said, "Timmy, we must do this again sometime.  But remember,
if you do anything to hurt Ced, I'll cut your balls off.
And I'd like to have copies of those pictures of Mark - you
know, with the lily?"  I was desperately trying to catch my
breath.  He put his right hand on my thigh, squeezed, and
said, "Good night, little stud."

Dumbfounded, unable to think straight, I got out of the car
and shut the door.  Stan smiled that killer smile, waved,
and roared away.

I felt the wetness in my shorts, looked down, and saw a big
spot on the front of my khakis, which were tented by my
rigid, leaking cock.  I turned quickly and went inside.


(By now you know this is going to be continued, right?   --
Tim)

                  *          *           *

My buddy Tom, who is German, has sent me his recipe for
Sachertorte, the dessert Stan and Tim had at Stefan's.  I'm
including it below in case anyone wants to try it.  Tom has
considerately supplied both metric and US quantities.

                     Tom W's Sachertorte

Grease the bottom of a 26cm/10" spring form pan or put wax
paper in it.  (Tom prefers the wax paper.)

Separate 8 eggs.

Whisk the egg whites until stiff; add 100g (1/2 cup) of
sugar while whisking.

In another bowl, beat the egg yolks with 100g (1/2 cup) of
sugar.

Add 60g (1/4 cup) of powdered baking chocolate, 120g (a bit
more than « cup) of flour, and 100g (1/2 cup) melted butter,
and stir it in.  Don't stir too much!

Put the stiff egg whites and 50g (1/4 cup) of ground
ladyfingers (or stale white cake) into that mixture and fold
it in carefully.  Again, don't stir too much, or it will all
collapse!)

Pour the dough into the spring form pan and bake in a
preheated oven at 200 degrees C (392 F) for 40 minutes.
Don't open the oven during the first 15 minutes!

When the cake is done, shut the oven off, but leave the cake
in it for a while.  Then take it out of the form and let it
rest for at least six hours.

Cut the cake in half horizontally.  Heat and stir a cup of
apricot jam.  Fill and coat the whole cake with the jam, but
don't use too much or it gets too sweet.

Finally, frost the whole cake with chocolate icing or, to
get a more authentic look and texture, melt bittersweet
chocolate in a double boiler and pour over the cake.  Then
put it in the fridge and let it harden.