A Midsummer night's dream

By Palinurus

May 23, 1999

He had given it one more determined try the night before. The town was full of student hangouts, dark, loud, crowded bars where people appeared to be having a good time. He had overcome his reluctance, and gone out at 9, to the Red Lion, where he could be sure he'd meet someone he knew. Joining the first group of familiar faces he saw, he had given a round, drunk three pints of beer in half an hour, and tried to find something amusing in the jokes that were made. He had cracked a few himself, with limited success, and after that, had just listened and half-heartedly joined in the laughter. But it didn't work. No matter how hard he tried, it just didn't work. They didn't like him, they looked at him strangely, his accent was wrong, his jokes fell flat. And he didn't like them, with their innate arrogance, their loud voices, their crude gestures and beer breaths. At 10.30, he had given up, disappeared without a word (no one would miss him anyway) and gone home, determined never to set another foot in any of those bars. Loneliness was better than that wrenching charade. When he got back to his tiny room, he had gone to bed immediately, but as usual, it had taken him a while to fall asleep. Every few minutes a noisy group of drunk fellow students would pass under his window, reminding him of his solitude. The clock had struck one before he finally slept.

He awoke to one of those Saturday mornings that are made for happiness, and that drive most lonely people underground. At 7 a.m., although the sun had been out for hours, the air was still crisp; but another gloriously hot afternoon was already reflected in the sky. A day for the company of friends, for lazy conversation, laughter, food and drinks in the shade of an old tree.

He hurriedly dressed in jeans a T-shirt, put on his sneakers, and almost fled out of his cramped room. He had to go back again because he forgot his wallet, and quickly grabbed some slices of bread and an apple on his way out. He wanted to leave the town before it woke up. He would leave it behind, and not return until it was dark enough to hide him.

After walking fast for half an hour and eating his makeshift breakfast on the fly, the houses grew sparse, the church bells in the center of the city became inaudible, and he could slow down. The country smelled wonderful, of hay, fresh milk, dust, sunshine. He knew the area well: since he had arrived a little less than a year ago, he came here almost every weekend. There was nothing here; what he came for was the absence of things, of people, of vague acquaintances and strangers who didn't notice him and made him feel as if he was invisible, as if he didn't really exist. He needed these long walks to make sure he still was himself, that he could still hear his own thoughts and that they still made sense. It got wet and chilly in the fall; there was a mean, icy cold wind that cut to the bone in winter; but once the weather turned, it wasn't only a flight from the city, but something to look forward to. The English countryside could be a pleasant place. Today he relished the sunshine, and rolled up the sleeves of his T-shirt to get as much of a tan as possible in the pale, milky sunshine, walking along the narrow, quiet country roads.

After another hour, he came to his first rest stop. It was a little clearing, off a sandy dead-end path that led away from the road, secluded, private. He had never seen anyone there, and had come to regard it almost as his own. It had a fallen log that provided a fairly comfortable place to sit, with a view of the meadows beyond.

But as he rounded the last corner, the first thing he saw was an ancient-looking beige motorcycle with a sidecar, parked just off the path in the high grass. The second thing was a figure in jeans and a white T-shirt, lying supine in the grass a few yards away from it, basking in the morning sunshine. He thought the man might be asleep, and was quickly calculating his chances of getting out of there unseen when the other lifted his head and said, "Hello there!"

Too late. Turning around now would be very rude. He stood still, hesitant, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Desperately wishing that the man and the bike would just disappear, that the strength of his resentment would make them evaporate and give him back his space, his privacy. Seeing no escape, he moved forward slowly until he was ten yards away from the man, and said "Hi." It came out crooked, too soft, slightly hoarse. He forced himself not to look away.

"I didn't think anyone else would find this place," the man said in a very upper-class accent, sitting up. "I'd come to regard it as mine, but I suppose that was rather silly of me." He looked back expectantly, as if he was hoping to be confirmed in his diagnosis.

He was around thirty, thin and wiry, with short, very dark hair and light brown eyes. His expression suggested he might break into a wide smile any moment, but he didn't; he just looked, curious, interested. "You seem to be a bit young to be looking for solitude," he observed. No answer seemed appropriate, and none came. Unfazed, the man kept on looking, as if he was fascinated by the discovery of another human being. After another few moments, he continued, "What's your name?"

That question was so direct it had to be answered. "Fox," he replied, realizing at the same moment that he'd betrayed his new resolve to forget that name, and bracing himself for yet another witty comment.

"Fox..." the man said in his own accent. "I'm Jeremy. You sound American. Do you live in Oxford? Do you like it there?"

Fox started to repeat his nod, but changed his mind half-way; it was difficult enough to maintain his façade for the few people he knew; there was no need to keep it up with total strangers. "Uh, well, no. Not much."

"I can imagine you must be lonely there. It's not the easiest group to fight your way into if you're not one of them from birth. I do it the other way around... Travel to America for a few months from time to time. I find it difficult, too. And I think it must be harder when you're young... How old are you?"

"Seventeen." He looked at the man with some interest now. "Where do you go when you're in the States?"

"California, mostly."

There was a small pang of disappointment. It might as well have been Australia: parsecs away from home. But the man was definitely unusual, very different from the people he was used to meeting in Oxford. It was a relief to talk to someone who wasn't part of that place. Someone seeking solitude, on a motorcycle. He had a handsome face that could have been stern but was softened by his eyes, which seemed to have the texture of velvet. The eyes didn't go well with the rest of him; they seemed too sad for his easygoing manner. He didn't look like he'd be quick to laugh at anyone. "What do you do in California?"

"I'm an actor."

That made perfect sense, Fox thought. "A famous one?"

Now the grin that had been pushing the surface finally broke through. "Not very, but I think I will be, some day." He got up, walked over to the motorbike, and rummaged in one of the saddle bags, giving away his true length, taller than Fox, so he must be at least 6'2". Even so, he didn't stoop at all; he looked very much at ease in his body. Maybe that came with acting... no, more likely it was a prerequisite. He came up with a wrapped package, looked at Fox and said, "Would you like a muffin?" He walked back to his spot in the grass and let himself drop.

Lure the wildlife out of the forest with sweets... it seemed like a ploy. But Fox followed and sat down at a safe, although on second thought slightly exaggerated distance of six feet. He had to reach over quite far to accept his muffin, almost lost his balance, and felt like an idiot. I'm too lonely; I'm losing the most basic social graces. Fortunately, the man, Jeremy, didn't seem to notice; or at least he didn't laugh.

Jeremy lay down on his back again, and looked up at the sky. "What do you read in Oxford?" he asked around his muffin.

"Psychology."

"Really! I'd have guessed English. Why psychology?"

Oh God, now that. Why psychology? Why did he always feel as if it gave something away about him that he didn't want to give away? It should have been medicine, of course, like his father had almost blackmailed him into doing... "Uh, well... I'm just interested in people, I guess..." His face grew hot at his inane reply, and he amended, "But also because... Well, I want to learn more about myself... Why I do certain things..." His blush deepened. There didn't seem to be a middle ground between saying nothing and saying too much.

"So... Did you learn anything worthwhile yet? "

That question was unexpected. He thought about it for a moment and was vaguely surprised by his answer. "Not much... It's like... I guess it's harder than I thought it would be. Although... they don't seem to know a whole lot about it, either."

The other man laughed again. "I know. I tried it too, although in a less exalted place than Oxford University. It was a disappointment. Maybe I'll try again in thirty years. They don't seem to have figured out how the mind works yet." He covered his eyes with one arm against the bright sunlight. "So why did you go to Oxford? They teach psychology in America, too."

"My father... My parents felt it would be good for me to look after myself for a while... I'm eh... I'm learning a lot about myself."

"I'm sure you are. How not to die of loneliness in a hostile environment."

"It's not that bad." Another hot flush; fortunately Jeremy still had his eyes covered. Inexplicably, he suddenly felt close to tears. He swallowed rapidly a few times, blinked, and the lump in his throat receded a bit. When he looked up again, he saw Jeremy gazing at him from underneath his arm. He looked away quickly.

The other suddenly got to his feet with surprising agility and began, "Listen, Fox, I'm moving on..."

Of course. I've told him too much. Loneliness is repulsive. No-one wants to look at it closely, let alone invite it in. I know how it works, why don't I pay attention? The tears had not been far, and started pushing against the back of his throat.

"It doesn't sound as if you're busy today, so I thought, maybe you'd like to ride in the sidecar."

He blinked again, disbelieving. "You mean... going with you?"

"Of course, if you'd rather be alone today, I would understand," the other added hastily.

"Oh, no, no, I'd really... Yes, I'd like that. To ride in the sidecar, I mean."

"Excellent! Let me put on my armor," he picked up a brown leather jacket that lay on the saddle and put it on, "You just sit... Oh," he said in dismay, looking at the clutter in the basket. "Well, I can stuff some of it in the bags, but not all... You'll have to keep the rest in your lap." He looked apologetically at Fox, who would have put up with a rabid dog for this unexpected adventure.

Everything could be stowed except for a large brown paper bag that smelled urgently of pastry. "Get in, then I'll hand you this," Jeremy instructed. Fox folded himself into the rather cramped sidecar and then accepted the bag. "Oh wait... You'll also want to put on this." He dug up a pair of goggles from a pocket in his heavy leather jacket. "You'll look like an idiot and have funny eyes afterwards, but you've never had a fly crash into your eye at forty miles an hour. You don't want to try it, believe me. Be sure to keep your mouth closed, for the same reason." Zipping up and donning his own goggles, he walked around and got on the bike. It started on the third try, with a roar that would have shattered windows, if there had been any, for miles around.

The noise was tremendous, and precluded all possibility of conversation. The wind blew his long hair out of his face and sent it streaming behind him. There was nothing to do but sit, look, and enjoy not being alone. Not looking like a pathetic loser. It was infatuating. After a few minutes, a smile appeared on his face, and grew wider. He tried to will it away, but it wouldn't go. He felt like whooping with joy, like waving to the occasional passer-by, like bouncing up and down in his seat. I knew there was something to life... I'd just forgotten.

An hour or so into the ride, he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He almost jumped, looked at the hand in a thick leather glove, and then up to the owner, who was looking down with a big smile. The hand pointed at the paper bag. It took a second to get his brain working, then he opened the bag, put his hand inside and extracted another muffin, which he handed to Jeremy. It was gone in seconds, and the hand was back. Three muffins disappeared in quick succession before the hand went back to steering.

The noise, the wind, the vibrations and the sun conspired to slowly stun him. Instead of watching the landscape, he now watched his wrist, the pattern of sun and shade on it, the way it bent. Then one of the metal clamps that attached his little windscreen to the metal of the hull. Then Jeremy's thigh, vibrating with the thrumming of the engine. He felt like leaning his head against it, but it was too far away. Instead, he scooted a little lower in his seat, and looked, wistfully. After a long time, he glanced up, at the very moment Jeremy glanced down. He colored deep red and looked straight ahead, cursing himself. The leather hand descended again, nestled itself in his neck, and squeezed gently. Encouraged, he looked up again, but the other was looking at the road.

A few miles on, they slowed and turned onto an unpaved road. It wound through the fields, then led through a woody area. After the road came a narrow sandy path, which ended in a small clearing, bright with sunlight. A fairly wide, shallow stream ran by the clearing. Jeremy turned the bike around and parked it.

When the engine died, the silence was almost eerie. They sat without moving for a while, then Jeremy got off the bike.

"This is my other private spot," he announced, taking off his goggles, "so we'll probably meet a crowd of people here." He began opening the saddlebags. "I was getting hungry." He took the bag of muffins from Fox' lap and ate another one.

It took some time to get accustomed to the silence again, the rock-solid ground, the still air. The stream made a small, murmuring sound - a typical summer sound. But Fox hung on to his lost paradise of noise and motion, and was reluctant to get up. Finally he took off his goggles and climbed out, standing a bit unsteadily. By that time, Jeremy had spread out a tarp a few yards away, and carried over a lot of bags and a picnic basket. He grabbed two of the remaining bags, one of which contained bottles, and made his way over to the tarp, where a lunch was unfolding that seemed big enough for four. "Did you bring all this stuff just for yourself?" he asked, then realized that it was not a very polite thing to ask.

"I eat a lot. And you may find it hard to believe right now, but one does actually learn to be alone and still eat decently," Jeremy replied, inspecting the contents of various bags. "Have you seen the beer by any chance?"

The bags held cold chicken, bread, cheese, fruit, more pastry and beer, as well as a towel and books. Lots of books. "I never know in advance what I want to read," Jeremy explained, looking slightly embarrassed. "Want some bread?"

"I'm not very hungry."

"Funny. You look like you must have the same metabolism as I do. Have a beer, then." He picked up a piece of chicken and wolfed it down, following it up with some bread and a few swigs of beer.

"I was thinking, Fox of Oxford. Your father, or maybe your parents thought it would be a good idea for you to go here, even though you don't know a soul and it's definitely not the first place one would send a sixteen year old American boy? Why is that?"

He immediately became uncomfortable. "I'm seventeen. Old enough. What's wrong with it? I think it's a good idea to become independent early..."

"Independent is one thing, cut off from everyone and everything you know is another. I'd say it's overkill. Especially if you still hate being here after... How long is it?"

"A year. Almost."

"After a year. Do you talk to them often?"

"Well... I don't know... A few times." Defensive.

"Have you told them you hate it here?"

He was silent, looking down at the light green surface of the tarp, very much not wanting to discuss this.

"Never mind, I'll shut up about it. I'm sorry I brought it up. I shouldn't pry. It's a bad habit." He grabbed another piece of chicken and continued, "You can ask me something now."

The silence stretched. Then, in a quiet voice, "It was worse at home."

Jeremy looked at him and said, "What?"

"I said, it was worse at home. Here I'm alone, but at least no one bothers me. There I was also alone, but there were all these... ghosts. Wherever I went, there was something wrong, someone would get angry or start to cry. It got so that... I could hardly move anymore, I would always upset someone."

He got up, suddenly rushed, and walked away, hesitated for a second, then went on walking. It was as if the dark shadows from that house could still pull him under, devour him, even across the ocean. Taking deep breaths, he fast walked without looking back until he was out of sight, then he continued more slowly. Finally, he stopped and leaned against a tree, keeping half an eye out to see if Jeremy hadn't followed him. It enraged him that those shadows could reach out far enough to spoil this day, to mess with him enough to make him look like an idiot before the only person in this country who seemed... human.

He wanted to go back to that bright spot, the only place where the sun could reach, but he felt too unsettled. He slid down along the tree trunk and rested on his heels, chewing on the base of his thumb like he always did when he was upset, and waited it out. It took a long time. It took so long that he was beginning to get nervous; he thought he would hear the engine start, but he wasn't sure if there wouldn't be another way out of the forest, and he knew he wouldn't be back in time in case... But that wouldn't happen, would it?

He wasn't sure.

He rose, began to walk back, then the nervous tension expanded into something that was almost panic. He couldn't keep himself from walking faster, then running back over the uneven ground, patched with sunlight. He ran, faster and faster, until at last he came back to the spot.

To his immense relief, the bike was still there. Jeremy lay stretched out on his back on the tarp a little further, apparently fast asleep in the blazing light. It took some time for his panting to subside. Then he walked over, slowly, furtively, and looked at the sleeping man. He longed to get closer, to touch, to lie down next to him and sleep too. He took a few steps, then a few more, very softly, until he was within touching distance. He squatted down and looked, but he didn't touch. After some time his legs went numb, and he sat down on his knees, still looking, his mouth dry. Without noticing, he leaned closer and closer, hands clamped below his thighs.

Suddenly, with a start, he realized that he was being watched as well as watching. He jumped up, but Jeremy grabbed his left wrist and pulled him back down, staring at him intently. "Don't run away again. I don't mind if you look. You can even touch if you want," he announced solemnly, and lay back again, eyes closed against the sunlight.

Fox sat back, and tried to calm himself down. It took a minute before he even dared to look again, his heart thumping in his throat. Just the thought of touching the other almost paralyzed him. After a lifetime of looking, he lifted his hand, then dropped it again. It felt numb. He couldn't do it.

It had been quiet for a long time before Jeremy sat up again. "That's clearly not one of my best ideas. Why don't you just lie down instead."

That was easier. He lay down on his back, shielding his eyes from the sun while trying to keep an eye on the other. He was trembling, and tried to still his muscles.

There was a tentative hand on his knee, almost making him jump. Another hand against his ribs, pressing gently, stopping the shaking. The hand on his knee moved to the inside of his leg, making him realize that it had been a bad idea to lie on his back. Oh God, now what? He could hardly turn around now. He gritted his teeth and lay still. The hand moved up along the inside of his leg, sending a searing thread up into his groin, almost making him groan. The hand followed the line of fire it had created, and ended up cupping his erection. He tried to grind his hips into the ground.

"Don't worry about it," Jeremy said softly, stroking him through the material of his jeans.

He began to tremble again, flushed dark red, trying to keep his hips from bucking against the hand caressing him.

"All right, all right, turn around if you want to."

He turned, with an unintentional sigh of relief. The hands teamed up, pushing up his T-shirt, rubbing his back. He relaxed, slowly, one muscle after another losing its tremor, slacking, lengthening under the touch. The fire in his groin burned itself out, mellowed into soothing warmth. He lay, passive, ready to accept whatever would happen.

His knees were pushed apart slightly, and Jeremy moved between them. The hands grabbed his waist and lifted him slightly, then reached under him to undo the button and fly of his pants. He tried to raise himself to help. Slowly, his jeans and shorts were pushed down, baring his ass to the warm sunlight. He heard a small, crooning sound from above, and two hands very, very softly touched the skin of his buttocks. It felt good enough to purr. Dimly, he felt the short, impatient yanks as Jeremy removed his shoes and jeans. He lay, waiting, almost incoherent with delight.

Two hands again followed the invisible firebrand trail up the insides of his legs. Once again, he began to tremble, but this time it was ignored. By the time the hands were halfway up his thighs, he was panting, turning his head sideways to breathe more easily. His erection was back, painfully hard. His buttocks were pried apart, making him tremble more. What followed was so unexpected that he cried out, a silvery stream of indescribably delightful sensation, making him buck, moaning...

"Oh, oh... oh Jesus, no don't do that, I can't..." He almost panicked at the unbelievably, unbearably strong sensation. It stopped for a moment, and he relaxed slightly; then it started again, but more slowly. He felt the tongue making slow circles around his anus, touching the tight muscle, pushing against it, gently, then stronger; moving inside. He wrapped his arms around his head, then took one down again and bit on his hand to stifle his moans. The pressure in his balls built up again rapidly. Another wet thrust pushed it to the boiling point, starting the rush, the explosion. The hands kept him still, the tongue pushed him on, as far as he could go and further, until he finally wriggled free and collapsed on the cool floor.

"Ah yes, it's so easy when you're young," mused the soft voice behind him, and Jeremy, still fully clothed, moved up against him and took him in his arms.

He blinked, waited for the roaring in his ears to subside. Then he turned on his back and looked at the other. "Are you going to... I mean, don't you want to... uh..." He couldn't say it. To his chagrin, he began to blush again.

"Well, I'll admit I've thought about it, but it seems a bit overbearing." Jeremy replied with a small smile.

"Do it. I want you to do it." He felt like this had ended halfway, and was completely determined to see it through.

"I don't think you know what you're in for, my dear Fox. Have you ever done it before?"

"No. But if everyone says that, it's never going to happen, is it?"

There was a small chuckle. Then, "Oh well. I suppose I should put up more of an argument, but it's really... too bloody hot for that. Hang in there for a second." Jeremy got up and walked over to the bike, rummaged some more in the bottomless saddlebags.

Fox turned back on his stomach, feeling the sun warm his ass. He spread his legs a bit to feel it there too. The delight was still there, and stayed, although he felt a small knot tying itself inside his stomach. It was going to happen, today, right here, when he'd almost given up hope. It was scary, but it was very powerful. It would shut out his other life, create a parallel world, right next to the dull, lonely one he lived in in Oxford, but parsecs away. A private universe. A place to flee to, and inhabited by the only person on this side of the ocean he liked to be with. His toes curled in anticipation.

The return of the hands on his back evoked a deep sigh. He closed his eyes, and could not imagine that it would hurt. His buttocks were spread apart once more, and he shivered when the wet, slimy goo touched him; then gasped as one finger began pushing it into him, spreading it around. The intimacy of it made him moan. Behind him, Jeremy whispered, "You have such a beautiful ass, it's unbelievable... Maybe I'll just watch myself do this..." The blood was singing in his ears again; his eyelids felt so heavy that it was hard to keep his eyes open. He raised his hips, thrust up against the finger until the other hand pushed him down. "Don't rush it, Fox..."

The second finger brought a small bite of pain, and he gasped, then bit his lip as it was slowly pushed in, stretching, probing, opening. The singing in his ears became a roar. He tensed, unconsciously, all his senses concentrated on what was happening inside him. The motion stopped, and Jeremy whispered in his ear, "Let it go. Just let it happen. I'll take care of you."

He made a conscious effort to relax, and it helped a bit. The pain receded, became just a stretching sensation, not entirely unpleasant.

The fingers disappeared and some more goo was applied. Three fingers hurt, as much as he'd expected. He groaned, then shut himself up for fear of ruining the whole thing. He could feel each knuckle as it entered him. His eyes burned, and he blinked the tears away. Then the pressure eased as the hand held still. Jeremy brushed his hair aside with his other hand, and pressed a slow, wet kiss on the back of his neck, making him dizzy. More kisses followed, along his hairline, inside his ear, on his temple. Occasionally, the hand would push inside him a little further, but it was no longer the focal point of his attention. He lay, swooning, in complete surrender.

The fingers inside him moved around a bit; he moved with them, groaning softly, then suddenly a startled cry as they forcefully brushed against his prostate. "Oh God, what is... OH!" He tried to get his knees under him, but was pushed down again.

"Just wait, Fox..."

The fingers disappeared, and more goo was applied.

"Turn on your side."

Confused, he turned the wrong way, was gently pushed over. More kisses in his neck, and he felt hypnotized, relaxing into a quivering heap again. When he felt Jeremy's erection push against him, he tensed up.

"You'll try to keep me out. That always happens; don't fight against it. It will hurt, but it will get easier quickly, I promise. Try pushing out a bit, that will help."

The pressure increased, and increased more. He tried to will his body into cooperating, but couldn't. He began to fear that it wouldn't work, that he couldn't make himself relax enough. Then, unexpectedly, the muscle gave way, and he cried out with the sudden, shocking pain. It was so blinding that there were no words for a few moments; then, between gasps, he ground out, "Oh Jesus, I don't think... I don't think I can do this, oh God..."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"NO! No, just... just wait... a little... I'll manage, really..." I want it, I want it...

"It will get easier. I promise."

He was quiet, teeth clenched, his rectum on fire, all muscles tense and aching, I can't bear it, oh God, oh God... Jeremy lay still, waiting, stroking his side with one hand, kissing his neck, making soothing noises. Miraculously, the pain did abate, and he slumped back, only to cry out again when the next push opened him further. Pulsing, red-hot, searing agony... I'll manage... Goddamn it, I want it... He raged in silence against his unwilling body, trying to force it into compliance. I can do it, I want it...

At last, he could feel Jeremy's thighs pushing against his ass. "Now, move," he commanded, his voice hoarse.

"Patience, my Fox," Jeremy countered, panting slightly. He didn't budge, just continued his slow kissing and stroking. The pain almost forgotten, Fox began to push back against him, but a surprisingly strong arm encircled his waist and kept him pinned. "Wait, you fool, you'll tear yourself up, and that'll be the end of it." He lay, his cock twitching occasionally.

The birds were singing, the sun was a little past its highest point, and it was hot and quiet.

Other sensations began to emerge above the raging waves of pain. The domineering presence inside him was daunting, but incredibly erotic. He could feel every movement, every pulse of the blood. He became aware of the surroundings, the birds, the sun. He flexed his anal muscle experimentally, and it hurt again, but yielded a soft gasp from Jeremy that made him swell with happiness.

Minutes passed before Jeremy attempted a slow thrust. Fox tensed up again, but the pain was bearable. Another thrust, then another, all very slow. Now there was something beside pain, a curious sensation, intense but not threatening. Each following thrust brought it out more clearly, in more detail. He began to move against the thrusts, but was stopped again. Then he felt Jeremy change position slightly, and the next thrust suddenly almost knocked the wind out of him. He quickly stuffed his hand back into his mouth to stifle the cry. The thrusting became faster, harder; the pain was gone, and all that was left were these unbelievable, radiating waves of lust that made his brain dissolve. He tried to hold himself back, fearing that the intensity would be painful after he'd come; but it was hopeless. Moaning against his hand, he came again, arching, convulsing, sobbing in breaths. He was completely unaware of the other's orgasm, and lay, blind and dumb, barely noticing that the thrusting slowed down, then stopped.

The next thing he noticed was a slight tickling on the back of his hand. Reluctantly, he opened an eye, and saw an ant walking over the back of his hand, erratic but determined. The heat was tremendous. Jeremy's cock was still inside him; quiet breathing against his shoulder ruffled his hair. He rubbed the ant off his hand against the tarp, crushing it accidentally. He felt vague regret about that, then marveled at the luxury of being able to regret crushing an ant. He closed his eyes again, admiring the red glare that shone through his eyelids.

When he woke up, the sun was visibly lower in the sky. He tentatively turned his head up a bit, and a quiet hand stroked his neck in response.

"Feel like a bath?"

He definitely felt very much like a bath, and got up.

The water was pleasantly cool, but shallow; it took some time before he found a spot where he could float without touching bottom all the time. He braced himself against a stone with one heel to stay in the same place, and floated thoughtlessly. After a while he closed his eyes. He could feel the gentle current caressing the skin of his back. Then, suddenly, the panic gripped him again and he shot up to check - but the motorcycle was still there, and Jeremy's pale form was lying motionlessly on the tarp, which had been moved into the shadow of a large beech.

Fox tried again, but couldn't find his peace of mind back. Finally he got out and, immediately self-conscious, made for the towel Jeremy had draped over a stone close to the water.

When he returned to the clearing, Jeremy was again lying stretched out on his back, naked, eyes closed. The spots of sunlight that fell through the leaves were refracted by the droplets on his skin, creating small sparkles. Fox stretched out beside him, carefully on his stomach. He wouldn't have been surprised if a unicorn had walked into the clearing. He looked at the tree for a while, then turned his head to study the body beside him.

As before, the man seemed to know that he was being watched. He turned his head a bit and looked back. He didn't appear to move, but Fox felt one finger caressing his hip. Turning his head to the other side, he shifted against the finger a bit, and a bit more, until their arms touched. Then he lifted Jeremy's arm and lay it on his back, hoping it wouldn't take more than that.

The hand began to turn slow circles, then flattened out, slowed, stopped. He wiggled a bit, but it didn't resume. After taking a deep breath, he blindly moved his own hand out, stroking Jeremy's hip, moving on to the stomach. The skin was soft and seemed as thin as paper - for a second he was mesmerized by the way it slid over the muscles under his touch. Then he remembered what he was doing, and lay still. Having his head turned away afforded some distance, a possibility of pretending that nothing was happening. He took command of the hand again and moved it down, slowly, slowly... Something must surely happen before he got there...

His hand was intercepted, held in a determined grip. "Don't tempt me, boy." The voice was quiet, wistful.

"I want you to do it again." He was afraid that his voice wouldn't be loud enough for the other to hear that.

"Not now, my Fox. It's too soon."

He turned his head back now, fixing his eyes on the other's waxing erection. "You want it too."

A little laugh. "Yes, I want it, but you don't. You're sore. Believe me, on this subject I know you better that you know yourself."

"I want you to do it," he insisted. He suddenly realized he couldn't live on that one time. The day would be over soon, and it was overwhelmingly important. "You want it. I want it. It would be stupid not to do it."

Jeremy sighed, then said, "I'll show you." He raised himself on an elbow and gently trailed his free hand down Fox' spine, into the crack of his ass, and touched the tender flesh of his anus. There was a visible flinch. "See? It's too soon."

"I can handle it. Do it. Please." There was a little whine in his voice that had crept there without his consent. Jeremy heard it too, and looked at him in surprise.

"Why do you want it so badly? It'll hurt, and it's really not like I'm the last man you'll ever meet."

Fox didn't look at him, stared ahead at the trees instead. "I just want it because... it makes me feel good." It makes me feel human, it thaws me, it gives me access to the real world, the one outside, the one I can't find on my own. It insulates me from the rest of my life, it shields me from the loneliness... "Please. Just once more."

Jeremy stared at him, considering. Finally he said, "I'm beginning to think you're a danger to yourself, Fox. You have a self-destructive streak."

"I'm not..." It wasn't going to happen. "Please."

Jeremy got up and kneeled next to him, stroking his hair, caressing his skull. "I really can't figure out how you work, boy. But I think I may know how to calm you down." He walked over to the bike and returned with one of his books, enviably at ease in his lean body. He pulled the tarp, Fox on it, closer to the trunk of the beech and sat down. Leaning against it, he spread his legs and patted the space between his knees.

"Come here," he told Fox, who scooted over, bringing his towel, and couldn't decide what to do next. "Lie on your back, lean against me. Now close your eyes."

It was decidedly awkward, but the reward of his gentle hands helped tremendously. The towel helped a bit, although even with his eyes closed Fox knew very well that it didn't hide enough. But he lay still, telling himself that it didn't matter; and after a while he began to believe it.

"I'm going to read you something," Jeremy said, leaning over to get the book. "It's from a love story, but not a happy one. I think you'll like it." And he read, with his melodious voice, his British accent, and Fox could have listened to the Begats for hours and not get tired of it.

'...The new world, he thought, the new life, and how sad it is. I suppose I should be congratulating myself, it may even be that later I shall look back on this as heaven. I have escaped, I have got off scot-free from a stupid erotic entanglement and a big intellectual illusion. I am home again with my good father and my sweet loving sister. I have even got a job. But how worthless it all seems now. And in a great void he saw the face of Beautiful Joe beaming at him through those bright hexagonal glasses, with that deceptive air of untouched childish innocence, that utterly enchanting, utterly desirable boy-girl charm, that energy of life which shed its light upon all things. I shall never see him again, thought Cato, I must take that in as certainty, perhaps my only certainty and the beginning of my truth. I could not help him, and perhaps I always knew this; he simply, completely baffled me, he defeated me with a graceful demonic brilliance. He made a fool of me in the worst sense. Lucifer, bearer of light. And Cato remembered how he had once thought of Joe as a symbol of breakdown in his life, as a significant temptation, even an emissary of the devil. And he thought, no, that was just a consoling dream, a last attempt to give sense to what in the end had none. Beautiful Joe is just a passer-by, a little unimportant delinquent boy who will lead an mean unhappy swindling sort of life, who will go to prison, on some day when I am teaching a class somewhere in the north or somewhere in America, and I shall never even know. I loved him, but my love was a self-deception and a vanity, it had no meaning and no saving strength. Men cannot help each other, they cannot even see each other, nobody can be changed or saved by the most extreme of loves. While I was gazing at Joe in a dream it was all taken away, the high edifices of my faith were dismantled: the three-person God, the Fall and the Redemption, the life of the world to come, in saecula saeculorum. Now there is only sin and woe and no saviour. Jesus was not the son of God, just a good witty man with a delusion. And so my life has become tiny and mean and incomplete and I must begin it again without comfort and without magic. It is the end of the story, and what follows will be quiet and dull, and I am fortunate that it is so and that I am not crippled and I will not be miserable forever.'

Fox was almost asleep, adrift in the sadness, shielded from it by the touch of warm flesh against his back, his shoulders, safe for the moment, but surely doomed tomorrow. He wanted to turn around, to press his face against the other's stomach; and after a minute of silence, he did.

Much later he lifted his head and said, "That was horrible."

"Horrible but beautiful, don't you think?"

"I guess..." The late afternoon light now seemed tinged with loss, with decay. He shivered, then sat up and stared at the stream for a while, with Jeremy stroking his back; but the place suddenly seemed tainted. It would get dark, the day would pass, and that was it.

"Can we go somewhere else?"

Jeremy looked at him and said, "I think you heard something I didn't read. I'm sorry. I know another good place." He ruffled Fox' hair, then got up and began to dress.

Everything was packed into the saddlebags again in ten minutes; now it fit in easily. The sound of the engine sounded cheerful to Fox, and he started to feel better the moment the bike began to move. There were many more insects now, and one did crash against Fox' goggles. He quickly wiped away the smear. The sun stood low in the sky but still had strength, its light almost yellow. The air was sultry and smelled strongly of grass.

Now that they were back in the sunshine, it was almost possible to forget the gloomy text. He remembered Jeremy's thigh, looked at it again, and now felt at liberty to touch it, gingerly at first, then with his whole hand; and he felt a sudden urge to fling himself at the man, wrap himself around the body, crawl inside his clothes, hide in a breast pocket, to never ever have to face the world alone again. I don't want to find my own way, it's too hard. I'll follow you.

But he sat in his sidecar, its metal hull keeping him confined. He should make Jeremy stop, climb out, tell him how it was - but it was impossible. He had to make do with the thigh, then the calf, and it was woefully insufficient, but it was better than nothing.

Finally they turned onto a smaller road, hardly more than a path in the grass, too narrow for the sidecar. They bumped along it for a few hundred yards, and then stopped. The place they had arrived was a grassy patch at the edge of a densely forested area. It was slightly elevated and overlooked a large sloping meadow sparsely studded with old trees. A few reddish-brown cows could be seen grazing in the distance. It was late afternoon and the sun was lower in the sky, but still generated enough heat to make the spot quite warm.

More food and drink emerged out of the bike's saddlebags, including a large carton of strawberries. "You look almost as if you're afraid I'll start gnawing on you when the food runs out," Jeremy said. "I'm not the big bad wolf."

"I was just wondering how it all fit in there," Fox countered, mildly surprised to be talking at all.

"That's practice. I know exactly how to fit in the maximum quantity of food between the bottles."

They ate in silence, looking at the landscape, squinting against the sun. After finishing two chicken legs and an apple, Fox asked, "Wouldn't you rather be alone?"

Jeremy looked at him sideways. "Than with you? No, I would not. Why do you think that?"

"Because... I don't have a lot to say. I don't know how other people manage to talk so much. I can never think of that many interesting things." He pulled up his knees and rested his elbows on them.

Jeremy ate another strawberry and lay down, shielding his eyes from the sun with a lower arm. "I'm glad you're not talkative. I think most people don't have much to say; but they're still talking all the time. You're not boring me."

Fox looked at him sideways, suspecting a white lie. "I don't have a lot of friends. I think that's partly because I don't know how to talk."

Jeremy rolled over to his stomach in Fox' direction, supported himself on his elbows, and said, "I think you don't have many friends because you're not shallow enough. Learning to act shallow would probably help you, but I'd advise against it."

"I hate being lonely," Fox said to the ground, chewing on a blade of grass, and was pulled down by his arm and enveloped in arms and legs.

"It gets easier. And having a lot of friends doesn't necessarily make things better. It's having the right friends that counts." Jeremy pushed his shoulders down to the ground and stroked his stomach through his T-shirt.

"Are you going to do it again?"

"Do what ag- oh. You do have a bit of one-track mind, don't you?"

"I just like the way it feels," Fox said defensively.

"I don't think I should do it again. I think at least 24 hours should pass before you try it again."

"So you'll do it again tomorrow?" Fox asked, then flinched a bit at his presumption.

"I... I won't be here in 24 hours. I have to go back to California tomorrow," Jeremy said, something like concern in his voice.

"Oh." It sounded indifferent enough, but half a minute later he had to turn on his side, away from the other, and couldn't speak anymore.

They lay in silence, the concerned one wrapped around the disappointed one, caressing what parts he could reach, the sun tinting them both orange-yellow at its low angle.

"Fox."

He shook his head and didn't turn around.

"What do you get out of it?" The head-shaking became more vigorous, then abated when Fox felt his fly being opened, wild hope snatching his heart and running off with it. When Jeremy tried to pull him over on his back, he struggled against the unexpected pressure, realizing that it wasn't going where he wanted it to go.

"Come on." When he was on his back and Jeremy reached inside his pants, he pushed himself away almost violently. "No..."

"Lie down, Fox. Don't be so flighty." This time, he allowed his cock to be freed, but held his head up suspiciously. "What are you going to... Oh! Oh Jesus..." and then his voice broke and he tried to be silent.

"Don't tell me this is your first blow job," Jeremy asked him with a grin.

"No... Oh..." It was unclear if that was meant to be a denial. Fox was still staring at Jeremy's head, mouth in a grimace, his consternation complete. "I'm not... I mean... don't stare at me."

"Dear Fox. The visual pleasure is the one thing you really shouldn't deny the person who's blowing you."

He sighed and let his torso fall back, hoping to shield his face from the scrutiny. When it was clear that didn't work, he closed his eyes. They flew open again when his pants were being pulled down his hips. When Jeremy pushed his knees slightly apart, he threw his arms across his face. He felt a slippery finger exploring the crack of his ass, then snake its way inside, and he gasped loudly. It hurt a bit, but the pain was nothing compared to the golden elation that carried him miles high.

"Does that hurt?"

He shook his head determinedly, then bit his lip as a second finger stretched him. "Please... Oh God..." The mouth descended on him again, and he thrashed wildly, then tried to lay still and accept the symphony of feelings, wet warm mouth enveloping him, fingers opening him further, making him short of breath.

When the motion stopped he groaned in horror. "Do you still want it?" a voice said, much closer than he'd expected. He opened his eyes with difficulty, found his voice after a few moments. "I want it. Please."

Jeremy pulled his pants down all the way to his ankles and removed them together with his sneakers, dropping the whole tangle a foot away. Fox started to turn around, but was held back. "Stay on your back."

"Oh no, I don't... not like this. I don't want it like this..." Jeremy ignored him, stroked the inside of his thigh as he squirmed. "Let me turn over..." In his desperate arousal, his brain could barely produce the words, and it was hard to remember why he wanted to turn over so badly. When he was pulled back a second time, he relented, but the panic shimmered at the edge of his awareness again when his legs were spread wide and his knees pushed back. Like a woman... He felt the sweat gather on his forehead.

"Relax, Fox. Lie back."

"I want to turn over..." he moaned, without much conviction.

"It's much better this way," the other maintained, leaning over him, staring down at his flushed face, then kissing him, claiming his mouth insistently, sucking, licking his way in deeply to a point where it was almost uncomfortable. Fox felt himself surrender without a conscious decision, slumping back, closing his eyes, mindlessly accepting and responding to the kiss, arching up against the warm body covering his, pushing back against the long hand stroking his thigh, following it all the way down to his crotch, closing around his balls...

He moaned and pulled his head back, coming up for air. Jeremy lifted his hips up a bit, and the next instant he felt the pressure against his anus, the pressure he'd thirsted for. He made an incoherent sound and lay very still, as if he could startle the other into flight by moving. The pressure increased and he told himself to open, to accept it... it was difficult, almost as hard as the first time, and it hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"You're in pain." The voice once again was very close. He shook his head automatically, but felt a tear escape between his closed lashed. It was quickly licked away. Jeremy's warm breath touched the skin of his face, and he wanted to cry, wanted to beg him not to stop, it would work, it would be so good...

They lay in silence, Jeremy straining to keep still and trying to support most of his own weight, Fox silently beseeching his body not to let him down and to stop hurting so goddamned much. They kissed again, a slow, deep kiss, and at the end of it, they were joined almost completely. Fox was panting, and close to howling in triumph. Raising his arms, he tried to pull Jeremy's torso down, initially succeeding only in pulling himself up. Then Jeremy gracefully lowered them both to the tarp, carefully settling on top of Fox. "Are you OK?" he whispered.

Fox nodded without opening his eyes, shifted slightly, winced, lay still again. His arms around the other almost protectively, he vaguely hoped for the world to grind to a halt, for time to stop. He could feel Jeremy's cock inside him, twitching occasionally, eliciting a small stab of pain and a big wave of pride. He smelled the other's sweat, licked the jaw next to his mouth. He traced the indentation of the spinal cord with a finger, then the muscles around it with the flat of his hand.

"Do you like me?" he asked.

Jeremy lifted his head, blinked slowly, and said in a hoarse voice, "Your timing is off. But I like you a lot."

"Fuck me," he said, and that's what happened. The pain was bearable, the euphoria was difficult to contain. He flexed the muscles in his ass experimentally and relished Jeremy's response, then forgot the use of all his muscles when the angle of penetration changed slightly and he was quickly, roughly pushed to the brink. He cried out when he came, unsuccessfully trying to muffle the sound against Jeremy's collarbone, then lay limp, breathless, staring at his lover's strained face for the few remaining seconds.

The air was beginning to smell of moist hay, the sky turned pink when they pulled apart.

When he sat in the sidecar again, fussing with his goggles, Jeremy suddenly appeared next to him, and sank to his knees without a word. They looked at each other for a second, one shyly, the other intently, until Jeremy raised his hand, hooked it behind Fox' neck, and leaned in to kiss him. Fox remained motionless, the edge of the sidecar's hull pressing into his ribs. He opened his eyes when the world seemed to tilt, then closed them again, and forgot to breathe.

As they roared on over the narrow country road, the sky changed from blue to black so gradually that it was unnoticeable. It only began to seem dark when the evening star appeared low in the sky. The night smelled fresh and saturated at the same time. Fox had closed his eyes and was trying not to think, and surprised himself by succeeding reasonably well.

When the lights of the city could be seen from the hilltops they crossed, Jeremy slowed and pulled over. He got off the bike as Fox took off his goggles. The smell of hot oil caught up with them and pushed away the summer night.

"We'd better say goodbye now; inside the walls it will have to be a formal farewell." He pulled Fox up by his arm and waited until he had stepped out of the sidecar. Then he touched his hand to the side of Fox' head and said, "I shouldn't have done it a second time."

"You're such a goddamn grownup sometimes! I wanted it, you wanted it, it didn't kill me. I'm glad I talked you into it."

"You're sore."

"I'm glad I'm sore." He set his jaw and crossed his arms. "I'm not a fucking baby anymore." Then he turned away to face the distant city lights, let his arms fall by his sides, and said softly, "I liked it." He stood by himself, trying not to shiver in the evening breeze, until Jeremy finally embraced him from behind. Fox turned around and worked his way into the leather jacket, a soft, tough shell big enough for them both. It was warm inside, it smelled nice, and he stooped to wipe his eyes on Jeremy's T-shirt. They stood quietly until a car came by, its headlights splintering the protective darkness.

Inside the city walls, even with Jeremy still next to him, Fox felt himself shrink. The dank smell of Oxford. The smell of arrogance, of exclusion, of painful, inevitable rejection. The city hated him with all its might; and though he hated it back, it was an unequal struggle. He grabbed Jeremy's knee and shouted, "I'll get off here!" The bike pulled over and puffed patiently while Fox crawled out of the sidecar.

"This isn't where you live, is it?"

"It's close," he said gruffly. "Goodnight." And turned away.

When he'd walked twenty yards, he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Wait, um, Fox..." It was terrible to turn around and face him again.

Jeremy hastily took off his jacket and held it out. "Take this," then when Fox began to shake his head, "Please."

"You'll be cold."

"I'll be fine."

Despite himself he wrapped his arms around the jacket. "Thanks."

Jeremy looked at him a moment, then held up his hand in salute and walked back to the motorcycle.

Back in his room, still stifling hot despite the open window, he sat down with the jacket still in his arms. Much later, he shyly went through the pockets. A clean white handkerchief, a shilling, two movie ticket stubs. Something hard behind the zipper of a breast pocket. He opened it; it was a small stack of business cards.

He put on the jacket. Then he took it off again, undressed and put it back on. It was warm and felt slightly obscene next to his skin, but he kept it on when he went to bed.

The quoted text is from Iris Murdoch's 'Henry and Cato'.

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