Date: Sun, 18 Oct 2009 21:27:53 EDT
From: Park517@aol.com
Subject: Doctor of the Heart Chapter Four


Although this story can stand alone, it is also a continuation of the first
one I posted, "Divine Neglect," (/nifty/gay/adult-youth/divine-neglect)
recently revised and posted in gay/beginnings under the title, "As Flies to
Wanton Boys."  It may help, but it is not necessary to read one or the
other version.  I welcome comments.

[DISCLAIMER: The following completely fictional story, the sole copyright
for which belongs to the author and translator, contains explicit
depictions of sexual intercourse between men and should not, therefore, be
read by anyone under the legal age of consent in whatever jurisdiction or
by anyone offended by homoerotic and/or pornographic material.  It is
forbidden to post the text electronically or disseminate it in any manner
without permission of the copyright holder.]

((Note: There will be a break after this chapter.  Postings will start up
again in mid-November.))

Doctor of the Heart     Chapter Four

       We did sleep.  It felt so right to have his warm, slim body next to
mine.  When I woke the next morning, I nearly took his elegant,
cinnamon-colored penis into my mouth the way I had often done when we were
still lovers and I wanted to lift him slowly from sleep into sex.  But I
remembered that we were only best friends, that we had decided more than
three years ago, as Tommy put it, "to move to a higher plane."  I had liked
the lower reaches myself, but Tommy said we were too young to be
monogamous.  "What if you wake up some morning and look at me," he asked,
"and think of the men you haven't slept with so that you could sleep with
familiar, boring, old Tommy?  And then it will be too late.  And you'll
feel bitter."

       Looking at him in my bed after a lot of other men had shared it, I
didn't think of him as boring or even familiar any more.  The hollow of his
clavicle was still enticing, but I must have forgotten how beautiful his
calves and ankles were.  And I didn't remember ever having seen his hand
tucked down inside the waistband of his shorts to cover his groin.  I
looked at the angle of his arm and elbow a long time so that I would be
able to sketch it from memory for the Tommy portfolio that he didn't even
know existed.

       Finally, a little bit reluctantly, I slipped out of bed and into my
morning routine. Mitya's door was closed, and I assumed, as I went into the
bathroom, that he was sleeping off both the alcohol and the emotion of the
previous evening.  Instead, he was standing at the sink, a towel around his
waist, a razor in his hand, shaving foam all over his face and that thick
coat of black hair covering his massive upper body.

       "Oh!" I said, not being at my most articulate before breakfast.
"I'm sorry. I thought..."

       He turned and looked at me and seemed about to crumple up.  He put
both hands on the sink to steady himself, shook his head as if to clear it
and then straightened up.  "Hello, Yves," he said.  "Good morning.  I have
had a cold shower.  Very cold.  It has made me to be much better."
Suddenly, he sobbed and, still gripping the sink, sank to his knees in
front of it.

       I don't usually have such an effect on people.  I had no idea why I
had him in tears, but I went and knelt next to him and put a hand on his
shoulder.  His skin was icy.  "Mitya, what is it?  Are you all right?"  I
sounded as worried as I was.  "Did I scare you?  I should have knocked."

       "No, no," he whispered.  "Please to excuse me.  I am just being
crazed.  It is only that your underclothimgs ... oh, this is terrible
... you are wearing what Rifat wore, what I bought for him, and when you
walked in ... Yves you do not look like Rifat in any way, but just for a
second ... I do not have correct words... I thought... I thought Rifat had
come back."

       I rubbed my hand along his arm and left it on top of his hand on the
rim of the sink.  I had on a pair of cherry-red briefs that, out of
deference to Tommy's sensibilities, I had slept in.  "Mitya, I didn't know.
I will go right now and put clothes on.  You finish shaving.  I shouldn't
have intruded."

       "No, Yves.  Don't go.  Don't change.  It is not necessary.  You look
very nice.  Even in the morning you are beautiful."  He got back to his
feet, and I rose with him.  "And last night you were very kind.  You and
Tommy.  To listen to me, I mean.  To cry with me.  It helped me to cry, you
know that, and to talk about him."  He turned on the hot water tap and held
the razor under it.

       "Tommy said it would help to talk.  Don't you think Tommy is
super-intelligent?"

       "And very nice looking, too.  Yves, excuse me for having curiosity,
but why do you not live together, you and Tommy?"

       "We did.  For about two years, but then Tommy thought we were too
young to... well, too young to make love only to each other.  He said we
would have regrets when we got older.  So we have been apart for three
years."

       Mitya smiled sadly through the specks of lather his razor had
missed.  "'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds...'
Maybe Tommy is not always super-intelligent.  I don't think Rifat and I
would have had regrets."

       "That's almost my very favorite sonnet, Mitya," I exclaimed.  "'The
star to every wandering bark... Love alters not with his brief hours and
weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.'  I'm sure that's true.
When you find someone, the way you found Rifat, it has to be forever.  And
some day, maybe, Tommy will change his mind.  He pretends that he's not
romantic, but last night he stayed here.  I didn't want to be alone, and he
didn't either.  We were both so sad for you and for ... for what happened."

       "I think that I will always to be sad." Mitya inspected himself in
the mirror.  "But, Yves, you and Tommy, you are special for me, you have
made me to be happy.  Well," he hesitated, "to be more happy than I was.  I
am so thankful to you."  He leaned into the mirror for a final touch up.
"And do you know?  I am to learn a new sport this morning.  Luc and
Jean-Pierre, they think I must know to roller-blade.  I told them I would
meet them at ten."

       He rinsed off his razor and turned to me.  I must have looked sour.
"Is that not all right, Yves?  Did you have plans?"

       "No," I said, "that's fine."  Liar.  Jealous liar.  "If you like
though, come back by noon and we will go to the parade."

       "What parade?"

       "It's called Divers-Cit‚.  It's for... well, it's for gays and
lesbians.  They, we, march to show that we are a strong group in the city,
but also to have fun.  It's a celebration, and it's political and it's just
a huge party.  I thought you might like to see it."

       "Will you march?"

       "Not if you come.  I have been in the parade a lot of times, so I
can give this one a miss.  But you might not be comfortable there.  You
don't have to come."

       "I think I am always comfortable with you, Yves.  I would like to
see such a parade."

       We left it at that.  He got dressed, and when I came downstairs,
showered and respectably clothed, Mitya had already got the coffee going
and put slices of yesterday's melon on the table.  Over breakfast, he told
me a little about Montenegro and its prickly dependence on Serbia.  I told
him a little about Quebec and its prickly position in Canada, but the
doorbell rang before we got too deep into comparative politics.  The Dubois
twins had come, as I saw it, to collect their prize, but they had the
decency not to gloat.  To my astonishment, they even asked me if I'd like
to come along.  To their astonishment, I said yes.  I left Tommy a note and
at LaFontaine park I happily outraced the pair of them and, to take a
victory lap, walked on my hands, bathed in sweat and self-satisfaction.

       Mitya turned out to be less athletic than he looked, and although he
did finally manage to stay upright and move forward at the same time, he
was clearly ready to head home when I suggested retreat.  Declining my
invitation to join us at the parade - "What if somebody saw us there?" -
the boys went their own way.  But they both shook hands with me, and one of
them even gave me a little smile, as though conceding that I might be a
barely acceptable member of the human race after all.

       At the house, I found a note from Tommy.  He would be marching.
He'd see me there or call later.  "I haven't slept so well in a long time.
Thank you for letting me stay.  Kisses, T."  For Tommy, those sentences
were just this side of a passionate outburst.  I regretted not having taken
his drowsing cock into my mouth a few hours earlier, but I began to think
that he might let me make love to him again.  Awake.  And soon.  It was a
hope to cherish.

       In clean, dry sports shirts, Mitya and I took the Metro to
Sherbrooke and stationed ourselves in a cheerful throng on the Berri
overpass just as the first unit of the parade passed by.  The sun was
fierce and the heat was sticky, but the crowd was good-natured.  Gay
bashers have tried to disrupt the parade before, and there had been rumors
that thugs, posing as evangelical Christians, would try again this year.
But as the different groups - Sero-Zero, Gay-Lesbian Progressives, Jeunesse
Lambda, Biker Boys, Gay and Glad - strutted past, all we heard was cheerful
laughter and applause.  Mitya didn't do much clapping, I noticed, but he
did whistle along with others at the buff, gyrating go-go dancers in tight
thongs and nothing else.  The big-bellied leather daddies and their "boys,"
some leashed and collared and nearly naked, clearly disturbed him, but the
outrageous drag queens in high heels, gold and silver lame and waving
feather headdresses had him laughing.  "They are men, Yves, are they not?"
he sought reassurance which I gave.  "They are astonishing," he added.  "So
very beautiful, some of them."

       But not his taste, I was relieved to learn when we went looking for
Tommy and something to drink in bar after overcrowded bar along the parade
route.  In one of them, but I forget which, Mitya suddenly yelped and
lurched into me.  He had been groped or goosed, and he was clearly not
amused.  Language I did not understand but could easily interpret as angry
obscenities spewed out of his mouth as he turned on his mini-skirted
assailant, a cute young thing in a curly platinum-blond wig, fishnet
stockings and platform shoes.

       "You wouldn't hit a woman, would you?" the princess - not yet a
queen --shrieked, cowering slightly.

       "But you are not a woman," Dmitri shouted back.  "And a woman would
not seize a man as you did to me.  I do not like to be clutched so."

       "I am sorry.  I really am," the boy in drag extended his hand.  "No
hard feelings?  You're a real dish, and I'm a bad girl."  His purplish lips
pouted.

       Dmitri did not shake hands.  With a look of disgust, he turned to
me.  "Please, Yves, to excuse me.  I think I will go home.  Maybe it was
too much of sun, and I did not get great sleep last night.  I seem too
tired to be in good company."

       I let him go without much protest because I really wanted to find
Tommy and I was really having fun.  For an afternoon and evening Montreal
belonged to us. To be with your own on your own terms is a pleasure that
ordinary people probably do not recognize; for them, it is the norm.  But
when we social untouchables suddenly, if briefly, become not just tolerated
but dominant, the high is all the more intense for being so brief.  At
midnight or three in the morning, we were all going to turn back into mice
and frogs, and we knew it.  But while the illusion lasted, we could have
fun.  And we did.

       At some point, I found Tommy, but he had found Leonard Reifel, and
Leonard was unencumbered by the boy poet.  He and Tommy were giving each
other soulful looks while they discussed Susan Sarandon's career path from
the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" to "Thelma and Louise."  I was clearly not
wanted or even particularly welcome, so I went to Sky, my favorite disco,
where I was both.  Quite a lot later, I clearly remember dancing in nothing
but the cherry-red briefs that had given Mitya such a shock that morning,
but I don't remember where or how I got the rest of my clothes back or from
whom or how I got home.  I do remember coming home and being touched to
find Mitya waiting up for me and apparently relieved at my return.  But I
don't remember getting undressed or going to bed or anything at all until
Mitya shook me awake Monday morning to answer a telephone call.

       I found that I could not move.  Or that if I did move, I might break
into small pieces.  The top part of my head, in fact, already seemed to
have detached itself.  Very vigorous Irish step dancers had gotten in
through the opening and were doing savage things with sharp heels to my
brain.

       "Mitya," I whispered, keeping a hand over my eyes in case the Charge
of the Light Brigade was coming my way, "please say I can't talk now.  Or
maybe ever."  He disappeared.

       "It was your mother," he came back.  "She says please to telephone
her when you are well."

       "You told her I was sick?"

       "Yes, but that you would recover.  I would be happy to help, Yves,
if you would like."

       "No sudden motions?  No loud noises?"

       "No.  Aspirin, cold tea and a Montenegrin remedy."

       "What's the remedy?"

       "If I told you, you would not to take it."  He left.  He came back.
I took everything he gave me and let him hold my nose while he poured
something ghastly down my throat.  I also let him lead me to the bathroom
and help me into the shower which he controlled so that it got colder and
colder until I had to jump out and dry myself off.  Feeling roughly
two-thirds alive, I wrapped the towel around my waist and saw that Mitya
was smiling.

       "You are laughing at me, aren't you?" I challenged him.  "Isn't that
cruel to laugh when someone is in agony?"

       "Are you still in agony?"

       "Well, no.  But I was."

       "And I was not laughing.  I am only glad that you are better.  You
must have had a very good time after I left."

       "I did.  God, Mitya, I had a great time.  I danced so much that all
my muscles ache, but it was worth it."

       "If you should like, I can give you a massage, but first I will do
for you something to eat."

       "Something mushy and quiet, please.  Something that doesn't put any
heavy demands on my nervous system."

       He grinned and headed for the hallway.  Suddenly, a thought occurred
to me.  "Mitya," I mumbled, "last night, I don't remember much except that
you were awake when I came home.  How did I get to bed?"

       "I put you there," he said.

       "Oh.  And my clothes?"

       "I took them off you.  They were not so clean."

       "And...?"  This took a little delicacy.  "Mitya, did I ... did we?
You know."

       "We did not, Yves.  You kissed me good night.  On the cheek.  It was
nice.  Like a child.  Besides, you were very asleep."

       "And naked."

       "But in bed.  Under the sheet.  Yves," he was grinning again, "you
are beautiful even when you are very, I will say, tired, but I would not be
improper with you in such a condition.  It would not be right."

       "Of course not.  I didn't really think anything had happened, but I
didn't remember.  Thank you for taking care of me, Mitya."

       "You have taken much care of me.  And I am very grateful.  Now I
will take care of your breakfast."  He left.  I finished up in the
bathroom, got dressed and called my mother.

       "Darling," she gushed, "who is answering your telephone these days?
He sounds very exotic."

       "He is from Montenegro, maman.  He's a medical student camping out
in Elaine's room for the time being."

       "Are you in love?"  My mother knows me too well.  She was surprised
when I told her I was gay and disappointed that I probably would not
produce grandchildren, but she goes through life with all flags flying and
treats me more like an ally than a wayward child.  I love her and she loves
me, but I don't feel that I have to tell her everything.

       "No more than usual, maman," I lied.  "How are you?  How is the
master of the universe?"  I love my father, too, but we live almost on
different planets.  He does useful things with large amounts of other
people's money and is very patient with me.  I disappoint him not only by
being a fag but an artist.  He disappoints me by being a hearty philistine.

       "We're fine.  It's beautiful here, Yves darling.  So restful.
That's why I called.  Wouldn't you like to come up and take a break from
the hot, dirty city?  You could do your watercolors.  I'd love to see you,
darling.  It's been ages."

       It had only been six weeks or so since she disappeared into the
wilds, to our summer place on a lake two hours from Montreal.  The big,
old, main house stood apart from a pair of more modern cabins, and the
surrounding hills were lovely, and the night sky was a wonder.  When I was
little, I thought the place was an endless heaven.  But it had shrunk as I
had grown, and now it often seemed confining.

       "Who else is with you, maman?" I asked.  She imported her
entertainment.  The locals were standoffish, and most of the other summer
people were Montreal families whom she either saw too much of during the
year or wouldn't consider seeing at all.

       "Just now Ceci and Larry and the twins."  My younger sister Cecile,
her journalist husband and their infants.  "And your Uncle Ben is coming
with your father at the end of the week.  Only family.  It would be nice if
we could all be together.  Do come, sweetie.  Your tadpoles don't sing
unless you're here."

       That was a low blow of nostalgic blackmail.  One youthful summer I
had reasoned that if frogs croak, tadpoles would chant.  I'd collected
enough of them to staff the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but they either
expired or evolved and hopped away without producing a note.  I was teased
for years, and the memory still rankled.  The prospect of seeing my
godfather Benoit, my mother's brother, was a much more positive lure.  Far
from philistine, he was a suave, much-traveled diplomat, a widower for over
three years, but still full of cheerful wickedness.  He knew as much about
art and music as he did about international politics, and he always treated
me as though I might amount to something.

       "Could I bring Tommy, that is, if he'd like to be brought?"

       "Of course, darling.  He's family.  And bring the student from
Montenegro, too.  He and Benoit can talk about the Grimaldis and Provence."

       "Maman!" I exclaimed.  "That's Monte Carlo.  Montenegro is part of
Yugoslavia.  Don't you read newspapers?"

       "Not unless it's a story about your father, darling.  So you will
come?  That would please me so much."

       "Well, I have to talk to Tommy.  And to Dmitri.  I will let you
know.  Maman, I love you.  Thank you for thinking of me."

       "I love you, too, my sweet boy.  I think of you always.  Call soon."

       I hung up and started thinking.  Then I stopped.  My brain was still
not fully functional, and I generally do better acting on impulse anyway.
So as I ate my noise-free breakfast, I told Mitya about my mother's
invitation and presented it as an offer he could not refuse.  "It is very
hard to be sad at the lake," I said.  "There are pine trees and foxes and
Indian arrowheads, and most of the conversation is bad jokes.  It will be
good therapy."

       "Are you now a doctor, Yves?"

       "Only of the heart.  I think a vacation would be good for yours."

       "And I would not be an intrusion?"

       "You would be a diversion.  A welcome one.  Everybody in my family
likes to talk but not necessarily with one another.  You would be a fresh
victim."

       Put in that light, Mitya cheerfully agreed.  I thought that I was
beginning to understand him.  Whether because he was genuinely
self-sacrificing or just shattered by his tragedy, Mitya cared almost
nothing for himself and almost everything for the well-being of others.  He
needed, I thought, to stand up for himself, to be less deferential, but I
could not say that to him outright, and I wasn't sure that there was
anything to be gained by saying it to him at all.

       Instead, I took him on another shopping expedition, mostly for
groceries and household necessities.  Coming home, we found the Dubois
twins waiting on my steps.  To my surprise, they had not come to steal
Mitya away for another athletic outing.  They wanted to see me.  And they
were very polite about it.  They helped us unload our purchases and put
them away and then one of them, with a good deal of hangdog diffidence,
told me they had come to ask a favor.

       "But first, we want to apologize," said the other, also keeping his
eyes on the floor.

       "For what?" I asked.  I saw no need to go easy on them.

       "Well, for... for..." he looked to his brother for help.  They both
looked to Mitya.  A quick smile from him but no prompting.

       "The thing is," the second twin picked up, "Mr. Sinclair, we have
been very rude to you lots of times and just because you're a ... you're a
queer is no reason for us to be shits when we see you.  So we're sorry.
Aren't we, Luc?"

       "Yes."  He put out his hand to me.  "We've been stupid.  Mitya told
us how nice you have been to him, a stranger and all, and la mere likes you
a lot.  And we understand you can't help it."

       I was astonished.  I know my jaw dropped and for a few awkward
seconds, I didn't know how to react.  I had fantasized about sex with the
Dubois twins but never about friendship.  But that's what they seemed to be
offering.  It couldn't be because I was better on rollerblades than either
one of them.  It had to be Mitya's doing.  I took Luc's hand and shook it
and did the same with Jean-Pierre.

       "Thank you, guys, but it won't be an apology unless you call me
Yves.  Your mother does, and I know she thinks I'm going to Hell for my
sins."

       "She thinks we are, too," said Jean-Pierre.

       "Well," I said, "then I'll have nice company."  That got a laugh.
"Look, I really do appreciate what you said," I added.  "I know it wasn't
easy.  I won't tell your friends on the block, but you'd better tell me
what the favor is while I'm in a good mood."

       "It's a favor, Yves, but we'd like to pay for it.  We have some
money saved."  This time it was Luc.  "We need a present for la mere's
birthday, and Mitya showed us some of your pictures, and they're great."

       "So," Jean-Pierre chimed in, "what we were wondering is could you
draw us so that we can give her the picture?  If you have the time?  And
like Luc said, we want to pay you."  He paused.  I didn't say anything.  I
was taken completely off guard by the idea of having him and his brother as
my models."

       "I have to think about it," I temporized.  "I really just do
sketches, like studies for sculpture.  I've never done a formal portrait.
Besides, I can't tell you apart.  You're identical."

       "Actually," said Luc, "we're not.  I'm circumcised.  It was our
father's idea."

       "But as a birthday present for your mother I am not going to make a
picture of your pricks.  You do want me to draw your faces, don't you?"

       They both laughed.  "Yes, please," they chorused.

       "Was this your idea," I asked, "or Mitya's?"

       "A little of both."  Jean-Pierre.  "We came by this morning when you
were still asleep, and he showed us some of your drawings.  I really like
the one where he and your friend are playing chess.  Maybe you could do us
like that."

       "Do you play chess?"

       "No."  He thought briefly.  "You know, what we do that's a little
like that is we arm wrestle."

       "Why don't you show me?"

       They sat down at the kitchen table, planted their elbows and,
staring hard into each other's eyes, began to grapple.  The result was two
profiles of the same kid.  It didn't work.

       "One of you has to relax or laugh or something," I said after
studying them a while, "so that I can have some contrast.  How does your
mother tell you apart?  When you're not naked, that is?"

       "I usually wear something blue, and Luc wears yellow.  Like today."
Jean-Pierre pointed at his shirt and his brother's.  But we have little
scars, too, if you know where to look."

       It was a polite challenge, and I took it.  "Just stay where you are.
Let me try to find them."  I circled them, sat down between them, got them
to laugh and to frown and finally I saw some distinguishing features: Luc's
left eye drooped a little at the outside corner; one of his brother's front
teeth was chipped.  Both wore their hair in brush cuts, but Jean-Pierre's
was fuller on the sides.

       "You're good," they said in unison when I reported my findings.
"Almost nobody sees this," Luc put a finger to his eye, "except Jean-Pierre
because he did it."

       "Not on purpose," his brother swatted at him.  "Not like my tooth."

       "Do you two fight a lot?"

       "Some," said Jean-Pierre.

       "Every day," corrected Luc.

       "Who wins?"

       "I do," claimed Jean-Pierre, "most of the time."

       "Do not," Luc was indignant.

       "Do so!"

       "Not!"

       "Hold it!"  I grabbed their forearms before sibling rivalry got out
of hand.  "I think I see something I can try.  But not on an empty stomach.
Have you dudes had lunch?"

       They hadn't.  We made sandwiches and iced tea and easy conversation
about nothing in particular.  While Mitya and the boys cleaned up, I
telephoned Tommy and left a message on his machine about my mother's
invitation.  Then I got my sketch pad and some pencils and crayons and
charcoal and put the twins back at the table with orders to arm wrestle
until they were too tired to go on.

       I got tired before they did.  Aside from being stunning physical
specimens, Luc and Jean-Pierre were two of the most intensely competitive
teenagers I had ever seen.  Each match was a triumph for one and a disaster
for the other, and neither was ever going to concede the upper hand,
literally, to his brother.  But I had found a composition - the moment that
one actually forced the other's hand to the table top - that would let me
show both boys almost full face, and I also figured out a way to make each
the laughing victor and the sullen loser.  I would give both combatants the
same chipped tooth and drooping left eye and one a red shirt and the other
a black one.  I didn't tell them what I had in mind, only that I needed a
break and would want them to pose again the next day.

       "Can we see what you've done, Yves?" Luc asked.

       "Sorry, against the rules," I said.  "But if you don't like the
drawing, you don't have to take it."

       They dismissed the possibility of rejecting the finished work and
insisted on paying for it -- $200, not much but still my first commission,
my first sale, a small secret I kept to myself.  As my contribution to the
birthday present, I demanded to be allowed to have the portrait mounted and
framed.  "Deal," the twins high-fived me the way they had slapped palms
with Mitya on the street two days before.  I glowed.  Suddenly, I really
wanted to be accepted by these brats.  I wanted them to like me, and it
looked like they might.

       Once they were out the door, I went straight to Mitya, who had been
sitting in a corner and reading quietly while artist and models worked.  I
put my arms around his neck and kissed his forehead.  "I love you, Mitya,"
I said.  "That was all your doing, and it has made me very happy."

       "Good," he smiled a little.  "They are nice boys, just young and
clumsy and they do not think very deeply.  I am pleased that I could help
them to come to know you."  He looked at me with concern.  "Yves, I think
you should rest now.  You look tired.  I would gladly give you massage if
your muscles still ache."

       I considered the offer and regretfully turned it down.  There was
nothing I wanted more than the feel of Mitya's hands on my body, but I
didn't think the experience would be restful.  On the contrary, I was sure
to embarrass myself by moaning with pleasure, getting hard, even having a
spontaneous orgasm.  I could contain my urges under most conditions, but
lying naked or nearly so while he rubbed and pummeled me would strain my
self-control past the breaking point.

	Instead, I took a long nap, Mitya took a short walk - the heat was
ferocious - and when I came downstairs, he and Tommy were bent over their
infernal chessboard again.  I didn't dare interrupt, but Mitya waved me
over and with a grin and a stage whisper informed me that his opponent was
in deep trouble.  "I do not think our Tommy has his mind in full on the
game."

	With a pained grimace, Tommy admitted defeat and leaned back.  "My
power of concentration is shot to hell," he said.

	"Leonard?" I asked.  "Did you get lucky?  Tell all."

	"You are so vulgar, Yves.  I would never have suspected."

	"I am not.  I saw you two together, remember, after the parade.
You looked as if you had succumbed to his fatal charm, and he looked ready
to ravish you.  Plus, as usual, pretentious."

	"Well, it turned out he didn't have all that much to be pretentious
about," Tommy sulked.  Then he laughed.  "It wasn't even 'Wham, bam, thank
you, Sam.'  Just bam, and no thank you.  Of course, he wanted to talk about
his problem, but I'm not into sex therapy.  Just sex.  So, no, I didn't get
lucky.  Not like you, you dirty old man."

	"What do you mean?  I'm so desperate I was even thinking of asking
you to come up to the lake at the end of the week."

	"I accept."  He grinned.  "I got your message, and I've already
telephoned your mother to thank her for the invitation.  But it may get a
little crowded if you bring your new conquests, too.  I might be de trop,
not being blond and lissome."

	"What new...?"  For a moment I was disoriented.  "Oh, those new
conquests.  I don't know what Mitya has been telling you but my relations
with the Dubois youngsters are purely professional.  Besides, they're jail
bait."

	"That didn't stop you when it was my knee pants you pulled down."

	"We were both jail bait then.  And I was consumed with a mad
passion," I laughed and gave him a kiss.  "Tommy, I'm so glad you'll come
to the cabin.  It'll be like old times."

	"Skinny-dipping in the moonlight?  Grab-assing behind the
boathouse?"

	"You'll forget all about Leonard."

	"I already have.  As I said, there isn't much to forget."

	"Well, since you're not in mourning, we should celebrate."

	"Celebrate what?"

	"The loss of my amateur status.  I received my first commission
today.  The Dubois boys are going to pay me for their portrait.  And Mitya
gets a finder's fee."

	"What is that?"  Mitya looked suspicious.

	"A commission for bringing in the business.  Ten percent is
customary.  Which should be enough for movie tickets if there's something
Tommy will let us see.  And then I will buy a lavish pizza dinner."

	"But they have not paid you yet," Mitya protested.  "And I was not
undertaking to get you clients, just to relax the tensions they have with
you."

	"And you succeeded on all counts.  Maybe the fee should be higher.
Then you could buy the pizza."


End of Chapter Four (Postings will start again after November 15.)