Date: Thu, 12 Oct 2000 10:17:07 +0100
From: Chas Bryant <charbry@supanet.com>
Subject: uncle-jules-4

UNCLE JULES -4

When Mr Moore told me that the basis of Buddha's teaching was that the
world was full of suffering, and more or less nothing but suffering, I
found this very difficult to accept. Five years later, I still find it
difficult to accept. But Buddhism is like anything else, you take from it
what you need and don't bother too much about the rest.

I was certainly not suffering when I puposely joined Gervase's football
team just to be nearer to him. I was certainly not suffering that first time
in the changing rooms when I saw him getting into his football kit. He
was as fastidious about his football kit as he was about everything and it
took him ages to get changed. I was talking to one of my friends, but I
hardly heard what he or I were saying: all my attention was centred on the
slight figure across the room.

It was like watching the unveiling of the god, and I was breathless. As if
we stood in a huge dark temple full of silences and changing mystic
patterns in the air, full of unseen presences. Sensations I had never known
before; the feeling of oneness and very deep satisfaction, far from the
misery posited by the Master. As he lifted his arms and took off his shirt
and tee, I saw that although indeed spare, he was not so altogether skinny
as I had imagined. The chest was small, hairless, but perfectly formed and
of the same unblemished ivory texture as his beautiful face.

"So what do you think then Chas?"

>From temple back to changing room. I had no idea what Bill had asked
me, and I merely mumbled in reply. Bill looked puzzled, but that was his
problem. Shaking his head, he got up and went off in his footie shoes in
search of some more responsive mate.

Back to my mystic temple where the thick incense swirled for a moment
and then cleared. Under the huge and over-arching dome a small figure
continued to disrobe. He stood now clad only in some stunning black
briefs. The waist was incredibly small and the arse was not the usual
meaty substance I preferred, but it was all perfectly put together. In
contrast the packet, or what I could see of it, looked big. As he lifted his
arms again to slip on his footie vest he rested the weight of his slim body
on one thigh and the beautiful bow-curve that resulted tugged at my heart.

There were only two or three other people in the changing room, and I
was taking my time just in order to observe my wonderful boygod. He
could feel my eyes upon him and he looked across at me. His glance cut
through the air between us. I knew that I was smitten.

He did not look away, and nor did I, nor did I this time blush. I was too
full of adoration for embarrassment to intervene. I knew too, or thought I
knew, that he absolutely welcomed my adoration - not from any sexual
longing, not yet, but because it empowered him. Which part of him this
empowerment touched, I did not know, but if he was satisfied, in
however small a measure, so was I.

I made sure I finished dressing at the same time he did. When he made
for the door, so did I. His footie gear was amazingly clean and well-
pressed. I walked behind him and although his figure was slight I seemed
to find it heavenly. That sense of wonder descended on me again. How
could the world be all suffering when there was so much light contained
in this one body?

He stopped and turned round to face me. My heart skipped several beats.
He looked me, as usual, straight in the eye. This time there was a certain
amount of amusement in the beautiful countenance, and not a little
cynicism. His laughter, as I had found, was usually mocking.

"Why are you following me Chas? Are you in love?"

It was said in a quiet voice, so that no one else could hear. This was to be
no public humiliation.

"Who said I was following you?" I asked defensively. "We're here for a
game. We're both in the same team."

That mocking smile again. "So you think that you and me are on the same
side?"

His cruelty was exquisite and I could not but help admire him for his
directness. I was abashed and all the light seemed to shrink up into a tiny
pea of radiance. I was eager not to watch it being slowly extinguished.
The light that shone from his body, however antagonistic his mind. Or
was the light in me and, by a series of mirrors, reflected onto him? I
stared at him and once more the world was still. I was searching for any
smallest clue that might help me out of the labyrinth.

He held out his hand but I knew he did not wish to be touched. "Perhaps
we'd better get on with the game?" he suggested.

As I followed him onto the pitch I thought to myself that he was
beginning to train me, just as I had had to train Ovo when I first had him.
There was no humiliation in that thought. If you met God, you knew who
had the power.

My game was absolute crap. Every time I made a mistake Gervase was
there, watching but showing no emotion. He played very very carefully
and took no chances. But when the ball came his way, he was always
ready for it. Even in the tightest opposition he never lost his cool. He
watched me all the time, of that I was sure, but to what purpose I did not
know. It was like being on probation in a way.

Then, towards the end of the game, he did something extraordinary. We
had both followed the ball up to the opposing side's goalmouth, then
there was a series of scuffles, the ball was kicked down towards our own
goalmouth but, before we had time to follow, it came back to us. Gervase
was at a slightly awkward angle to the goal, I was in a better position. He
looked straight at me, nodded quickly, and gave me a perfect pass for me
to score. And in it went. I rushed over to him and gave him a big hug and
he hugged me back.

The point is, I am sure he could have scored himself, but he chose to pass
it to me. Why he did that I could not tell, so when we were back in the
changing room, I asked him.

He pouted a bit. "No sweat Chas. You were in a better position than me."

"But I am sure you could have scored."

"Not from where I was standing." And he shrugged his shoulders.

It seemed to me that he had rationalised what was an irrational action.
Something had got hold of him, same as it had me. Some obscure
planetary configuration perhaps that mixed with our own birthchart
destinies was now rolling out inexorably. Or was that too dramatic? I
could imagine how Gervase would respond to that theory.

Undeniably, the ice was broken. The irrational act had a positive
consequence. Did I mention that 'our' goal had saved the game for our
side? 3 - 2. We were the toast of the team.

Gervase was normally so serious that every time he smiled it was like the
sun coming out from a cloud. After five years, one particular smile, given
just for me, lingers on in the memory. How could anyone remember a
smile? Seems crazy? OK, I'm crazy.

It was an apres-school social function, I can't remember what, one or two
masters but mostly boys. There were soft drinks and some eats and lots of
noise. Disco, dancing. Speeches too, I seem to recall. But it was all low-
key, informal. Many of the guys had their girlfriends with them - sad
bastards! Gervase was there, without a girlfriend, like me. I suppose it
was some weeks after the great goal incident.

We had been getting along a lot better after that, although Gervase's
tongue could still be very cutting and I had made my mind up to talk to
him about it if it didn't improve soon. Possibly he didn't realise how
wounding he could be. Most guys shrugged and said he was a bitch, but
they weren't half in love with him like me. I took it personally.

This evening he looked stunning, and I even recall what he was wearing.
Jewellery, for one thing, which wasn't allowed in class. Three rings, no
less, one of them a huge tiger's eye which glittered against his dark hand,
especially when he threw up his arm to stop his wristwatch slipping
down. You can see how besotted I was, just from the details. At the time I
don't think I realised just how much I liked him, not yet anyway.

As well as the rings, there was a heavy gold bracelet and a matching
chain round his neck. These were all extra exotic touches to add to that
aura of Indian-ness which he was so quick to deny. Thus, I thought, might
Gautama have looked before he renounced the world, at the court of the
king his father.

He was dressed simply in baggy cream slacks, a white tee and a soft
purple baseball cap (shade to the front!) which also brought out his lovely
skin colour. Taken all together, enough to make me gasp when I first set
eyes on him. I think besotted is definitely the right word!

He was the first person I saw when I entered the hall, and after that I saw
almost no one but him. How to explain this obsession? My theory is that,
allied to juvenile omni-sexuality, that great early surge of procreative
intensity (whether directed towards producing offspring or not) I was now
witnessing the second side of that coin. In a word, love. This love was in
my case allied with intense spirituality and the resulting mix was
devastatingly alluring.

For me, Gervase was more than himself, he was also a symbol, fast
turning into a deity. What are the gods but our own longings?

He stood in front of some illuminated display, with the light mostly
behind him. I think he must have been feeling a bit out of it, because as I
approached him across the room he gave me the biggest smile I had ever
seen on his face. When he smiled, his lips went downwards at the corners,
which is contrary to the usual human smile, but the rest of his lips were
undoubtedly friendly, and of course the smile was also in his eyes which
were brilliant. He wore some really nice aftershave (big turn on for me)
and I would dearly have liked to hug him there and then.

"Hullo sicko!" was his affectionate greeting.

The dancing was already beginning, some of the gang having drunk more
than the soft refreshments supplied. Hip flasks were much in evidence but
the masters wisely pretended not to notice.

"You come unaccompanied?" observed Gervase, a wealth of other
questions lurking behind the stated one.

"I see you're a wallflower too," I said.

I got out my hip flask and he his and we clinked them together and took a
manly swallow. I said, "If you keep looking at me like that you won't be
a wallflower for long."

"In your dreams sicko baby!"

"You bet."

To be truthful, the drink was pure bravado and went straight to my head. I
think Gervase too had brought his because it was expected rather than
from any alcoholic yearning. We stood side by side and already I felt like
one of a couple. He soon put a stop to that, and when I placed my arm
upon his shoulder in friendly fashion he told me to fuck off.

"Just give me the chance, Gervase."

"Queer bastard." The expletives were down to the juice of the grape and
Gervase hardly ever swore normally.

But as the evening wore on, the atmosphere between us slowly began to
change. We even danced side by side, rather than together, but this was
good enough for me. He moved of course with melting grace and with the
minimum of sweat. When dancing he put his head next to mine to be
heard above the din, his mouth near my ear, and the skin of his face was
soft as silk. He seemed to think nothing of this, but to me it was
everything. Sick, as he said.

The spirit in the hip flask was undiluted 47 per cent gin, nicked from my
parents' bar at home. Not a good choice. The hip flask held four or five
stiffies at say one measure per gulp. Result: inebriation. I was not alone in
this and as the evening wore on things got slightly rowdy. Par for the
course at a school 'do' and the masters on duty grew more authoritarian.
Mind you, they had their own hip flask in the shape of a large bottle
under the table, but we weren't going to blow on them if they left us
alone. The decibels from the disco reached intolerable levels. Some
dopey looking girl was closing in on Gervase having probably lost her
own guy, but Gervase was not responding too well to her unsolicited
approaches to his untouchable neat bod.

What was it he said? Something along the lines of "There's a fishy smell
around here?" "I think the pussy's gone off?"

I think she got the message. And I seem to remember her parting shot was
"Oh well, I'll leave you two girls to dance alone."

I asked Gervase if he wanted some fresh air. He looked at me with a
question in his glance and his head on one side, those down-turned
smiling lips absolutely demanding some tongue. "So long as you are
good," he said and he was so inebriated he couldn't help laughing out
loud. This made me think that normally he was so intent on being as cool
as possible that pleasantries like this one slipped out without the
accompanying laughter and so became sarcasms.

We sat on a bench under the trees by the playing fields. The sound of the
disco was pleasantly muted. There was the occasional scuffle in the
undergrowth where other courting couples were romping. There was a
half moon hanging just above the far end of the field and masses of stars.
The air was pleasantly cool.

My flask was nearly empty and I squeezed out one last solitary drop.
Gervase got his out and handed it to me.

"Thanks pal."

"Your need is greater than mine."

I put my lips to the place his lips had drunk from and thought of Omar
Khayyam. I would rather have drunk from his lips direct, but that
possibility seemed unlikely.

He sat with his hands on the seat behind him, leaning back, his legs wide
open and the tight white tee revealing his slight chest and the buds of his
young nipples. The golf cap was now on back to front - the girl who had
made a move on him had turned it and he had forgotten to adjust it. I
looked at him and he was staring up at the moon but from time to time he
gave me that sideways glance in the crotch area that was so typical of
him. I knew that he knew that I fancied him but I didn't know how he
was dealing with this fact.

"Must have a pee," he said, getting up, and he stumbled away into the
bushes and I could soon hear the sound of his water on the vegetation.

When he came back he sat down immediately beside me, whereas before
he had been a foot or so away. His bony kneecap was pushed into the
flesh of my thigh, his thin arm against my more muscular one. His
aftershave was like a sweet drug filling my mouth and nostrils and lungs
with its heady personal vapour.

"Better?" I asked, meaning the pee but also making a positive statement
about our present position.

"Better," he nodded with a smile and sounding just slightly breathless.

I hardly dared move for fear of frightening him to the far end of the
bench. OK, so it was a gift, like he was saying, "If you like it, Chas, here
it is, but just don't read too much into it."

He even for a moment put his head on my shoulder. I could feel the cloth
of his cap against my cheek. "I'm a bit whacked," he said. "Too much
vodka."

And while we sat there with his head on my shoulder we quietly
discussed the pros and cons of vodka as against gin in a very worldly
fashion. I stopped asking questions of him or myself and did a Buddhist
relaxation and just let things be. Om mane padme hum - hail to the jewel
in the flower of the lotos. I was the lotos and he was the jewel. I was the
dark of the night and he the bright star midheaven.

An inebriated master beating around the bushes for any signs of sexual
misbehaviour blundered across our line of sight, but because we were so
still he never noticed us. That was the end of the magic moment. Gervase
stood up and stretched, his arms high above his head.


Any comments welcome at charbry@supanet.com
Many thanks to those kind friends who already wrote me.