Tristan

Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard

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Chapter 28

The Pendleton Murrah Room was the finest in the University and had been used for special occasions since 1929 when the Senate Building was reconstructed following the not unwelcome fire that had burnt down its rather ugly Victorian predecessor. Under an impressive dome that was supported on ionic columns was a circular mosaic that spelled out the name of the college on a star that represented the state. Various stylized symbols orbiting it denoted the central role that the Institution had played in the course of human affairs over the years, including during the War Between the States, the First World War and the economic expansion of Texas in terms of agriculture and oil up until the New Deal when the art work had been commissioned, providing employment for a small soviet of left-leaning artisans.

On the marble floor chairs had been set out for about two hundred guests. Tristan found his one and sat down between a woman from the NAACP and a fellow student who was a reporter from the College newspaper. Tristan saw that the front row was reserved for the College's cadets whose complex and Masonic code of greeting each other went on and on until, at last, they were all seated.

There was a stage, a lectern and a projection screen behind it. This partly obscured a full-size replica of the famous Liberty Bell that since the Truman Administration had become the most sacred artefact of the College. It was only rung on the most important of occasions--and sadly this day was not one of them.

The Corps of Cadets' Brass Band played patriotic tunes whilst the audience waited. Finally, a signal stilled the baton and the dignitaries filed onto the platform. President Israel W. Barlow made a show of allowing the ladies to go first. There were several in academic gowns, some with outlandish scarves and gold-tasselled mortarboards that denoted qualifications from the more obscure universities. The Cadet Colonel looked very smart in a Disney Toy Story sort of uniform. Carol Ann Rusk stepped out in chrome yellow high heels and wearing a tight-fitting ultramarine blue frock with matching clutch purse, the reporter next to Tristan having asked for his opinion as to the exact colours. Then there was Dr Baddeley and some others from the clinic. Next came Senator Rusk carrying a sheaf of notes and he found his place in the centre, next to the President. Lastly, and to a slight cheer from the students in the audience, came Colton Stone. Although missing his helmet, he was wearing his full football uniform, including cleats. Tristan had never really seen it close up and was intrigued by the lumps and bumps formed by strategically placed padding. He was more familiar with the enormous frame of shoulder armour. The white pants were indecently tight and the laced front was almost fetishist, thought Tristan. However, what was more shocking was that Colton had elected to wear a cropped jersey. This brevity, while modestly covering his chest, left his rippling abdomen fully exposed along with the adolescent trail of wiry blonde hair that drew the eye down to the aforesaid lacing and what might lie beneath. Curiously, Mrs Rusk asked Dr Shue, the Dean of Science, to swap seats and Tristan saw her talking earnestly to Colton. He could not read the expression on Colton's face, but he felt distinctly uneasy and the woman from the NAASP asked him if he was all right.

There were the usual speeches and rounds of applause. President Barlow was at pains to thank the Senator for his long history of support for his alma mater and then turned his attention to the work done at the student clinic, mentioning Dr Baddeley by name as well as Colton Stone and three other volunteers. Then it was Senator Rusk's turn. The crisis in mental health, especially among young people, was ventilated and Tristan could find no fault with this sentiment but, by degrees, it became an attack on the outdated liberalism' and European-style socialism' of Obamacare which, he reminded the audience, affected one-sixth of the Nation's economy and severely disadvantaged those who had made proper provision for their families' healthcare through private insurance schemes. The compulsion to pay for health insurance, furthermore, was `unconstitutional'. Tristan didn't know whether it was or not, but thought to himself that the Constitution was possibly inadequate or even at fault and therefore should be changed to nullify the Senator's argument. But he kept such treasonous thoughts to himself, but he did catch a few hisses from people in the audience who obviously disagreed also.

At last the Senator's electioneering speech drew to a close and he passed the microphone over to his wife. Carol Anne Rusk tottered to the lectern on those ridiculous heels. With her big hair--strawberry blonde--and her large mouth outlined in violent lipstick, she reminded Tristan of the aging Lauren Bacall in Douglas Sirk's Written on the Wind, which he had seen at the Film Society. She said a few words about the family's philanthropic foundation and then was handed a piece of card the size of a tea tray by a functionary and, with ceremony, passed it on to President Barlow who had risen to accept it. "And we are pleased to contribute, one million dollars!" There was great applause, smiles all round and the photographers posed them for publicity shots. However it was not over, for Mrs Rusk reached for the microphone again and said, "We have also decided, following this afternoon's visit, to contribute an extra five hundred thousand dollars to a women's health initiative!" There was more applause and even a little cheering.

Tristan looked sharply to Senator Rusk while the centre of all attention was still focussed on his wife. He could tell that this announcement had come as a shock to him and the momentary anger on his visage was quickly groomed into one of affability. He seemed to be murmuring correct things about the importance of the Clinic's work, but what he was really thinking Tristan could not tell.

Dr Baddeley seemed very pleased and she was saying something to Colton. Mrs Rusk came between them and took Colton's hand and could be seen whispering to him. Colton was looking a little stunned, but was nodding. The photographers intervened and the dignitaries were grouped and regrouped for handshakes and Kodak Moments.

While the majority dispersed, a core of people strolled from the Senate to the Stadium for the next event. Many of the players, in civilian clothes, had lined up to shake hands with their senator. The Rusks were presented to the coaching staff and the Director of Sports. Thereafter followed a tour through the footballers' gymnasium, which was still fairy new, and the new swimming pool, which again, was for the exclusive use of the College's famous football team. The trophy room was a more formal space, filled with awards and memorabilia that dated back to the time when the College was merely a school for farmers. Tristan found it very interesting, having never been here before and he spent a great deal of time peering at the old sepia photos and the ancient uniforms now in glass cases. Then Dr Baddeley engaged him in conversation, saying how the sum of money was rather more than expected and that the additional promise made by the Senator's wife was even more so and that a working party would be required to outline how it should be spent. The waiters were starting to circulate with drinks. To Tristan's annoyance, they were of the temperate variety and he rightly assumed that President Israel W. Barlow was responsible for this outrage. He was just saying so to Dr Baddeley when he realised that he had not seen Colton for some time--he wanted to seek his views on what had preceded. Then, and he knew why he had been looking, he confirmed that Mrs Rusk was also absent.

"You lookin' for Colt?" asked Dr Baddeley.

"Yes, I haven't seen him since we got here."

"Me neither."

Tristan knew what this meant and with fear speeding his step, he searched the building for likely sequestered spots. He came to what he realised was the players' locker room. Obviously they kept it to a more hygienic standard than the one he was familiar with from reading Cleaning up the Locker Room at Brigham Young--which wouldn't have been hard. He crept in, cursing the swing door that squeaked. It was empty. Or so he thought, but a telltale grunting and moaning and a continual cry of `Yes! Yes!' was probably not the ghosts of footballers from long ago. Tristan stood frozen. Then the voice of Mrs Rusk could clearly be heard to cuss: "Oh my fuckin' Gard!"

He didn't know what to do. He looked down and there he spied an orphaned yellow high heel--the sort that lesbians of the more abandoned kind habitually wore in the variety of porn that Colton enjoyed. His mind was racing. Should he wait until they had finished? Would he be required as a witness in some future court case? He thought of recording proceedings on his phone, but didn't quite know how to do it. The grunts, which he now recognised as being Colton's, were accompanied by the sounds of slapping flesh. Tristan tried to imagine exactly what parts would have to be colliding to make such a noise. He couldn't decide. He continued to listen, like the worst voyeur, but he was too nervous to even feel a twinge in his own loins. Then Mrs Rusk changed gear--or perhaps `key' would be more fitting--and her shouts became louder and more deranged. They reached a crescendo that seemed to reverberate off the very steel lockers that lined the room. It was time to act.

Tristan went back to the doors and opened them noisily. He called: "Miss-us Rr-usk? Miss-us Rr-usk? Are you about? They're wanting to take some more photos! Miss-us Rr-usk!"

He then banged the doors as if he had just left and hid in a cleaner's cupboard. He pressed his ear to the wood and could hear scrabbling and muttered words. A minute later there was the distinct sound of a lady walking with only one shoe. "Here it is," he heard her say. There might have been a kiss, Tristan could be sure. Then the doors were heard.

"Tris?" came Colton's voice.

Tristan emerged from the cupboard but couldn't see Colton. He went further in and there was Colton in front of the mirror, running his fingers through his hair. "Oh there you are..."

"Jesus fuck, Colt! Are you fucking insane?"

"Look, Tris..."

"No, you listen to me, your supposed friend."

"Supposed?"

"You have just escaped being found guilty of raping that woman's daughter. Her husband is an arsehole and one of the most powerful political figures in the country. I might remind you that you needed my help and the help of my father to get you off the rape charge..."

"But I didn't rape nobody..." Colton interjected with some anger.

"I know, but your cock got you into a heap of trouble. There is a room full of people out there--the woman's husband, the President, the Director of the Southern Baptist fucking Convention!" Tristan was almost screaming.

"Jesus, Tris, chill man!"

"Don't you dare tell me to chill! Don't you know how dangerous your behaviour is? Not to mention the morality--she was a married woman."

"Listen, to me, Tristan," said Colt turning on him. "You are in no position to talk about morality. She wanted it an'she's over eighteen."

"Well over eighteen," replied Tristan with asperity.

"Well, she isn't gettin' any from her husband."

"What's that to do with you? She's the women who was out dancing when her own daughter was in hospital after being raped by her druggie son."

"She didn't know about any of that until afterwards. Rusk was lyin' to me. Why do you think she stuck him for another half million? He will probably kill her for that."

"So it was justified because you earned a lot of money? That's being a whore."

"Don't be ridiculous. That is quite different. The money is for a good cause."

"So you would have fucked her for less--or for no money at all?"

"Maybe," said Colton defiantly. "She did have sexy shoes for an older babe."

"Babe? `Old trout', I'd say."

"All right, sexy shoes for an ol'trout." He gave a half laugh.

There was a long stand off when nothing was spoken. At last Tristan said, "You're right, it is none of my business except that you're my friend--my best friend--and so it becomes my business. What you did was very foolish and it could still land you back in trouble. The Rusks are a bad lot--anyone can see that. I know you got more money out of them, but I really think that you have sex addiction--you think with your cock and not with your rational brain."

Colton put his hand on Tristan's shoulder. "Maybe y'all right about that. I do just jump in--I know women are a pushover."

"Like me?"

"Yeah, child's play. I'm sorry if I caused you grief, Tris. Are we still good?"

"Yeah, of course we're good."

"Did y'think I looked hot in my uniform?"

"Yes, Colt, you looked fucking hot in your uniform," said Tristan as if he were placating a troublesome child. "For half a million, she got you cheap."

"Mornin', Cowboy."

"Howdy, Doc," said Colton in a downbeat tone.

"What's he problem, or are you just here to congratulate me on the Rusk money?"

"Congratulate you? Why, what did you do?"

"Not much, I guess, I suppose I should be congratulating you."

"Well, it's kinda complicated an' why I'm here is related to that, I guess."

"Spill, Cowboy."

"I think I might have sex addiction, you know, Satyriasis or Don Juanism."

"Well, do you now? Not my field. Don't even know if it's a real condition."

"I Googled it and it exists an' I reckon I've got all the symptoms. Tristan says..."

"Hold on there! When you're seeing students, don't you tell them not to Google their symptoms?"

"Yes, but..."

"Yes but, you do it yourself?"

"Yeah, but Tris..."

"What does Dr Isley say?"

"Well he's not really talkin' to me at the moment, but when he is he's sayin' that I can't control myself and... er...get into trouble by having casual sexual relations in...er...inappropriate...Well, he says that I do it for ego and self-gratification and not for the right reasons...an'...well, things are a bit cool between us right now."

"Look, Colt, I'm not a psychologist. Is this a problem that is debilitating you? Is your normal life suffering because of a compulsion to have sex?"

"Well, I 'most got into trouble with the rape thang."

"Yes, but you didn't do it."

"No, but coulda done it--you know, if I'd gone home with Madison Rusk."

"Not you, Colt, if I'm any judge. Not in a million years."

"Well, don't be too sure, Doc. When I'm on the job I just tune everything else out--you know, I'm in the zone. Is that normal?" Dr Baddeley just laughed. Colton pressed on, wanting to be taken seriously. "Just this year I fucked a women who ran a motel--just on a whim--knew her for just five minutes. I mean I could have walked away, but she was givin' off vibes an' I thought--well, I don't know 'xactly what I thought at the time." Colton was becoming agitated. "And a professor here too--no names. That was surely inappropriate? And just recently there was someone else."

"You don't have to tell me, Colt."

"I need to tell someone--apart from Tris." Dr Baddeley gave a slight nod. "Well that extra half million..."

"Oh my God, Cowboy! You didn't?"

"Yeah, in the locker room, in my uniform--asked me to keep it on. Tris discovered us--but she didn't spot him."

Dr Baddeley whistled. "So you did it for the half million. Doesn't sound like compulsive behaviour to me--a little risky, certainly. Impetuous even, but not pathological."

"You don't think so? There were plenty of others and Tris says..."

"Tristan loves you, Colt."

Colton hung his head. "Yeah, I know," he said quietly, "an' I wish he was talkin' to me again."

"It's probably true that he's looking out for your best interests, but he could also be just a little jealous of your philandering. You're only nineteen and the College Quarterback, so you are in a position where sexual partners are freely available. But do be a bit more cautious with the ladies, bless you."

"So, there's nothing I can take? There's no specialist I should see?"

"I'll write you a prescription."

"What did Dr Baddeley say?" asked Tristan who was busy on his Greek.

"She listened to me and could see that I have a problem."

"So you are going to receive counselling or some sort of treatment?"

"Not exactly, but she asked if you'd help me and gave me this. Y'all will help me, Tris, won't ya?"

"Of course, Colt," said Tristan, turning around for the first time. "What's that?"

"Dr Baddeley prescribed it. She said it might do me some good. You put it on topically--y'all have to do it."

"Me?"

"Yeah, she said t'get your roommate to put it on properly for it to work."

"What does it do?"

"Don't know. It says to apply it to the groin region three times a day and to massage it thoroughly into the epidermis."

"Well, that is unusual. We'd better make a start."

Colton dropped his shorts and plaid boxers and stood next to the desk, expectantly. Tristan struggled with the lid of the jar and it eventually came off to reveal a cream. "Smells like Nivea," said Tristan. "That's good, because often these things stink. Brace yourself, because it will almost certainly sting. For someone like you, they probably have to make it very strong--but, as you are always saying, `no pain, no gain'."

"I'm ready, Tris, " said Colton who had now positioned himself on the bed, leaning back on his elbows.

Tristan put a little on two fingers and decided to start on Colton's balls--the left one to be precise--although he did not know for certain the seat of Colton's Satyriasis. Colton winced.

"That painful?"

"Just a little, but I'll be brave. It's cold."

Tristan applied some more and massaged in little circles. He went on to the right testicle, now repeatedly dipping his fingers into the medicament and spreading it widely.

"Now, m'piece."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I can take it."

Tristan now had a great heap and he smeared and slathered it, massaging it into the epidermis with vigour. He looked up at Colton. He had his eyes closed tightly. It must sting the tender flesh, thought Tristan, but pressed on as per Dr Baddeley's instructions.

Colton's cock was thickening and lengthening, despite the pain. "Skin me back an' do the head," gasped Colton. It came to Tristan, as perhaps it did to Pasteur looking through his microscope and discovering the real cause of the broth spoiling, that the salve prescribed by Dr Baddeley was indeed just Nivea and that Colton was being pleasured rather than doctored.

"Fuck! Fuck!" cried Colton as Tristan tried to force some down his piss slit with his pinkie. Tristan went back to his balls and choked them with his left hand while masturbating him with his right. "I'm close, Tris!" Tristan tightened his grip and increased his tempo. Colton went into the throes of his orgasm. Tristan knew the pattern well enough to skilfully match his own movements to those of his roommate for the most satisfactory result. Tristan was actually able to squeeze and release the convulsing organ, causing the cum to spurt in a controlled manner, which it did, the creamy flow mingling indistinguishably with the beaten froth of the deceitfully packaged Nivea lotion.

"So, what's her game?" asked Tristan who was now lying side-by-side with Colton on the bed.

"She said that I don't have sex addiction--that's a rare condition--and that I'm just, you know, a randy teenager."

"Oh."

"Yeah, but she agreed with you that I should be more careful--prudent--she said and that you had my best interests at heart, because you know..." Colton didn't want to mention `love'.

"And the Niveah?"

"Well, I told her my main problem was that you was not talkin' to me."

"I was talking to you."

"Yeah, but all frosty-like. And she thought this might--you know-- bring us closer together again."

"Well, I guess it did," said Tristan, admitting defeat in the matter of keeping his relationship with his roommate from the Doctor. "I know you can't entirely help yourself when it comes to sex--like a dog in heat, you are."

"Thanks. But I thought `a bird that can't help but sing'--or somethin' might be nicer."

"I really don't want you any other way, Roomy."

"Thanks, Tris. I don't want you any other way too. Maybe just put your head on my chest for a bit. You can shower me up later."

With the Micawber-like `restitution of mutual confidence' between the boys, student life resumed its springtime pattern. Of course, Colton was now fielding texts from Carol Ann Rusk as well as Océane Sapion and several other females that Tristan did not know about. He was reluctant to ignore the former, in fear of the money not being forthcoming, and relied on Tristan to help him compose suitably evasive replies, such as those suggesting that Colton had a jealous girlfriend or that Senator Rusk was getting suspicious after such an unexpected donation on his wife's part. In truth, he had heard nothing in that direction. It remained, however, as a lurking threat.

Happier was the visit to the new house. Deshawn, the first year Engineering student, had been hard at work, sometimes with the help of Colton. Tristan was looking forward to seeing what he had done.

The three of them mounted the stairs to the loft and Deshawn opened the door and immediately directed Tristan's attention to the right, to the section where Tristan's bed would one day be positioned.

Above the bed and attached to a high rafter by bronze chains was a large sheet of stained plywood. A couple of timber members stiffened it top and bottom. A thin cord was attached to this and passed over a pulley to disappear through a hole in the floor.

Deshawn walked to the wall and dramatically threw an old-fashioned knife switch--the sort that Dr Frankenstein would be familiar with. Nothing happened for a moment, then there was a low purr and Tristan felt a draft. He looked upwards and the punkah was sweeping majestically backwards and forwards. It was a very pleasant feel as well as being hypnotic to watch.

"That switch, isn't it kind of dangerous?"

"Nah," said Deshawn, "It's just a battery circuit. The battery operates the real switch downstairs. But it's sure steam punk, don't y'think?"

"Yeah, it mega cool," said Tristan who inspected it more closely. He had not noticed the other end of the cord; it ran through some brass eyebolts to the other end of the room where its twin punkah was moving in stately tandem over where Colton's bed would be placed. At the far end of the room a counterweight was moving steadily up and down, causing the back swing. "This is fuckin' unreal, De!" exclaimed Tristan with delight.

"But what's all this?"

He was pointing to the pool table, which, at the moment, was covered with its timber top. On this were scattered some books and papers. There was a laptop computer that was plugged in to a socket that was fed by coiled flex--like a telephone cord--that disappeared up into the rafters. More curious were the four thin stainless steel cables that were attached to the corners that also disappeared upwards.

"Turn that switch, Tris," said Deshawn with an irrepressible smile. The switch was an old ceramic one.

"Which way?"

"To the left."

Tristan did so and immediately a low groan could be heard and the tabletop shuddered and started to levitate. It moved steadily upwards, wobbling slightly, but not enough to disturb the books or computer. When it was about four feet above the table it halted and a fluorescent tube came on, illuminating the green baize.

"Oh my God! I don't know what to say! It's fucking brilliant, De! How does it work?"

Deshawn was obviously thrilled and he swaggered just a little. "Well, I got this ol' 'lectric motor from a garage door for fifty bucks. Then I found some bike wheels from kids' bikes an' I bought a couple more." Tristan looked upwards and the chrome wheels were glinting in the rafters. The table top weighs just a little more than the counterweights over there..."

On the wall were twin stacks of threaded weights from some gym machine.

"Got them for nothin'--that is I took one out in my bag each day."

"De! You didn't have to steal for me!"

"Made it more fun. Then all I needed was some cable and your electrician wired it up. Did take a heap messin' round to get it right so that it was balanced, but it sure was fun."

Tristan was instructed to turn the switch again and the table slowly settled down once more, felt covered flanges guiding it into its final resting place. Colton insisted on having a go, then Tristan again so he could watch the bike wheels turning up in the roof. It was strangely beautiful.

They went down stairs to the stable below. There was the old washing machine motor, geared down so it turned an eccentric wheel slowly. To this was attached the punkah cord. It was really quite simple. At the other end of the stable and set below the insulation of the floor above was the former garage door motor and the winching mechanism.

Deshawn had done all this for less than three hundred dollars. Tristan willingly counted out the cash for him and there and then it was decided to go out to a bar to get drunk to celebrate--but not before they had another turn at operating the steam punk marvels that would certainly fulfil the delight' quotient along with firmness' and `utility' which Vitruvius so rightly thought two thousand years ago were the touchstones of a good house.

Please look for the next chapter. Henry would love to receive feedback and will endeavour to reply. Please email h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put Tristan in the subject line.