Tristan

Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard

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Chapter 41

"Well, what did you think?" asked Dr Iain Macpherson as he pressed `stop' on the remote.

Iona Macpherson, his wife and secret author of erotic fiction, pressed the button on Johnny Unitas' locker door and sent it gliding the few feet towards Tristan who was sitting on the Lubbock couch. The bottle of wine did not topple and so Tristan was able to pour himself a second (or was it a third?) glass and top up that of Colton who was reposing comfortably on the floor. "It was beautifully photographed. The Kodachrome colour was sumptuous," she said. "Marvellous score--all those French horns and heavenly choirs. It was really over the top," she said with a tinkling laugh.

Her husband nodded.

"They never said the word, artist'--they were all industrial designers' and `stylists'," said Tristan

"Yes, stylists' cheapens the whole process--it's an advertising term, just like designer' is an engineer's. They are mere functionaries of the corporation, not true artists at all," he said with contempt. "Of course, a lot of it was simply a pack of lies--and I don't just mean that almost no Americans lived like that. Did you see how many products were actually from `socialist' Europe--like the Swedish phone and those Barcelona chairs? It wasn't all American design at all!"

"I found it real creepy," opined Colton from the floor. "I mean, everythang was just so perfect, but all the people's lives seemed kinda empty. I mean, we see meals bein' prepared by beautiful moms that look like Grace Kelly an' families out waterskiin' and havin' picnics--but--I don't really know what...It was jus' unsettlin'."

"That's spot on, Colt," said Iain, lifting the glass of wine to his lips in celebration of his `lesson' having been successful. "It was an idealised world created by advertising. Very wholesome, but straitjacketed--dystopian even."

"Fascist?" suggested Tristan, the history student. "People compliant. No place for gays or minorities or even independent thought."

The short film they had been watching was called The American Look. It had been lavishly made in 1958 to celebrate the new Chevrolet Impala--a huge vehicle that was all chrome and dangerous fins--and, as the thrilling voiceover intoned, to pay tribute' to the designers of the American Way of Life'.

"What's the `take home message'?" asked Iain as if he were addressing a class of dullards.

"Something about the American Way of Life being all about the freedom to choose?" suggested Tristan. "But it's a crock of shit, because the only choices are those presented to the people and these are created by the technocrats in the pay of the big corporations. And Life isn't all about consumerism anyway."

"Yes, that's exactly what Khrushchev said to Nixon. It was made as a Cold War propaganda piece, of course."

Macpherson went on to outline his latest project: a television series on the `invention' of the American Way of Life--that carefully groomed image created by Hollywood and Madison Avenue-- with his central thesis being that very seeds for the decline in American civilization were sown in the prosperous years of the Twentieth Century. "The worm was in the apple," he said, ponderously.

Tristan stared off into space. Macpherson had tapped into his own growing disquiet over America. What had happened to the country? It seemed to be irrevocably riven by discord and with no hope of unity. More surprisingly, there was a huge portion of the nation who questioned the very rational world itself. Democracy, supposedly a foundation belief, was being found to be fragile and capable of being quickly eroded. This was not so in 1959--or was it?

"Everything can be taken away from the disenfranchised millions," the academic went on, "but let them keep their guns and they think they are living in a free country!"

They continued their discussion over dinner--Walt Disney coming in for particular opprobrium, which Colton thought was a bit unfair as he still harboured a desire to see Disneyland. Tristan was rather depressed and put away a good deal of Hill Country wine.

The Macphersons were the first real guests after Dr Baddeley to visit the house, `HMS Beagle'. It was still some time before the new term officially began, but the football squad would be returning early for their pre-season training.

"I have to bulk up some," said Colton, helping himself to more meat, "Coach Shultz wants me to be to be at 220 lbs. but I have to still be quick on m'feet."

"Would you like to help me on the script, Tristan?" asked Macpherson, returning to their earlier topic. Tristan put down his glass in surprise and his earlier gloom was dispelled and he nodded enthusiastically. "Of course the BBC people will have a whole team of writers to turn it into something they can film. They were thinking of getting Donald Sutherland to do the voiceovers or maybe Tom Hiddlestone. There would have to be some payment this time."

"Well, I'd be honoured, if you think I would still have time for my studies." He poured some more wine for them all and filled his own glass to the top.

"I'm sure you would, but someone young to bounce ideas off would be a big help. Someone who knows this country but who was also an outsider like me."

"You'd be great, Tris. That's what America needs; historians who understand where we've come from."

Tristan was tremendously flattered and said so to Colton later that night as he wound up the flex of the vibrator and put it into its box. "I mean he's asking me to help him and I'm only a uni student."

Macpherson had thought Tristan had done a very thorough job on the indexing of his previous book and had indeed presented Tristan with a gift in lieu of wages. It was an original political cartoon by the great Thomas Nast and was beautifully framed. It depicted the new President, Theodore Roosevelt, carrying his famous big stick and hunting for big game' in the form of trusts'. Tristan loved it and promised to hang it in his growing gallery of art works and it would remind him that reform had once been possible in America, even if Roosevelt had been a shocking warmonger.

"Y'all plum smart, dude," said Colton from the mattress. "You've been doin' sophomore classes in jus' y'freshman year an' now y'all enrolled in honours classes in y'second year."

"Well, you're a smart dude too. You could be studying Biological Science anywhere in this fucking country." He looked up at the photo taken at the Linnaean Society that was pinned above the bed. "I don't know who the old dude is, but isn't that Colton Stone the Darwinist?"

"Shut the fuck up!" laughed Colton. "And you're drunk! I'm Colton Stone the starting quarterback and twenty year-old babe magnet." He lay back and clasped his hands behind his head, displaying his sweaty blonde pits, which now smelt of expensive deodorant from a posh retailer in St James's.

"Who says `babe magnet'?" laughed Tristan. "What are you, Charlie Sheen?" he added before plunging his nose into those pits.

"Well, it's true. I'm the final product of American civilization; the V8 2000 model."

"Your don't have a spare tyre--yet-- but you are heavy on fuel consumption."

"Well, your motor's certainly runnin' and is that a stick shift?"

"I've just cum, but I'm still randy. Besides it's too hot to sleep."

"Now y'all getting' with the program, Roomy. What do you want this BM to do?"

"Open me up--back there."

"Anythang t'oblige."

"No, not that one; the new big one. I really need stretching."

"You sure know how t'please me."

Tristan smiled to himself as he uttered the cheesy words in the hope of having that effect on Colton. "I want to gape for you, Cowboy," he breathily added, quoting again from Stretch and Yawn, the story of an unusual relationship on the Goodnight-Loving Trail.

"Onto the workout bench," said Colton, pulling him from the bed. "I can do a mighty fine job there."

Colton produced the water-based lube, which was always kept handy and sat on the bench himself. He placed Tristan face down over his lap.

"Are you going to spank me, Daddy?" giggled Tristan.

"You've been a real naughty boy, drinkin' alcohol when y'underage." He delivered a resounding slap to Tristan's white buttocks.

"Daddy, that hurt! I'm only 20."

"Pretendin' y'ten."

Colton produced the new dildo--a polished monster with the brand name `Lexington Slugger' inscribed on the Duralumin-- and lubed it up in accordance to the extensive directions conveniently written around it like the band on a cigar.

"Do you believe half of these testimonials?" asked Colton in amazement, still reading. He read out some examples, citing well-known public figures from Church, Screen and Politics.

"Shut the fuck up and stick it in!" cried Tristan.

"Sure you can take it?"

"Not sure, but I want you to make me, Stud."

A struggle ensued.

"Nearly there!"

There as a sound that might have been mistaken for the late President Taft squeezing into a telephone booth at Grand Central Station.

"Fuck! You're a champ, Tris." Colton then moved it in and out gently--then, getting excited, not so gently."

"How does it feel?"

"Fucking hurts like buggery. Take it out and fuck me."

Colton was already rock hard when he wrestled Tristan off his lap and lined him up on the bench, merely adjusting the tilt slightly for efficaciousness, and slid easily home with only a contented sigh heard from both parties. Colt held still, just flexing deep inside Tristan, grinning, pleased with himself.

"I didn't have to suck you to make you hard, Colt."

"No, shoving stuff up y'ass an' seeing you take it sure gets me hot."

"I take it because I know it makes you hot."

"You don't enjoy it?"

"I sort of do, but I like being open for you--so you can use me, just how you like." He saw Colton's grin widen. "Within reason," he appended. "I don't want to end up like Gage."

"I don't want to hear about it," said Colton sharply.

"He allowed himself to be repeatedly used by the whole platoon at Lejeune."

"I don't wanna hear about it, " Colton reiterated, still inside Tristan and tugging on the silver bars in Tristan's nipples.

"Again and again and again they fucked him and pissed on him and degraded him in every possible way--in every possible orifice."

"Those stories are bullshit."

"He loved it, of course. In fact Gage became known as the Barrack Room Queen and was used without mercy by the men--of all ranks--sometimes a dozen at a time when they were on active service..."

"I told you I..."

"He was kept gaping too, and was the humiliated plaything of all the dominant alpha males after lights out."

"Y'all talk too much an' you'll put me off."

"And they were all well hung like you, Colt--it was apparently a recruiting requirement-- and they were all starved for sex in the remote deserts of the mountains..."

"Gage couldn't have been as annoying as you."

"Well, you'll have to read Sub Marine for yourself to find out."

"I think you need another ten minutes with the Slugger."

"No, Colt, fuck me and let me feel your muscles."

Tristan, who was on his back, reached up and caressed those youthful muscles that were with easy worship and then slid his hands down to seize Colton's firm buttocks and actually pulled him deeper into his abused rectum.

"It's like we're joined. I love feeling you inside me like this."

"Any deeper n' I'd be out back o'ya."

"Am I making you feel good, Cowboy?"

"Sure are. No chick can take me like you do and that makes me feel d'man!"

"Do you think you could pick me up while still keeping it inside?"

"Sure."

Colton raised Tristan as easily as if he were a pillow and Tristan wrapped his legs around Colton's waist and clasped his hands around his strong neck. Gravity resulted in deeper penetration. There was a little dull pain, but Tristan was not complaining. They were staring into each other's eyes and their lips were almost touching.

"This is where you kiss me," said Tristan softly. "Poor Gage never got kissed except by the guard dog in chapter five."

"You're fuckin' insane," said Colton, trying not to laugh. He did kiss him and Tristan kissed back.

"That was nice," said Tristan quietly.

"Yeah."

"Would it be too gay if you now fucked me like a bitch until I came and then you came inside of me?"

"What part o'that would be too gay?"

"The part where we buy a shih-tzu and call it Miss Betty."

"Reckon I'll leave that bit out, but you can leave the rest to me, Roomy."

Colton, still standing with Tristan impaled like a butterfly in a glass case, leant him against the bathroom window and brutally rammed himself repeatedly into Tristan as if he were hammering a nail and Tristan grunted and swore with each thrust. Then Tristan was peeled off the wall, his back revealing the red stripes caused by the timber muntins of Ben and Ivy's Japanese design, and was placed on his knees on his own bed. Colton pulled out and Tristan let out a groan. The Babe Magnet applied more lube and wiped away the sweat that had dripped into his eyes with Tristan's tee-shirt, and then re-entered Tristan and fucked him like the Rottweiler at Camp Lejeune. Tristan was flipped over like a pancake and eventually Colton was making love to him sideways, with Tristan on his back--his superior length making penetration still possible.

"I want you to cum when I do, Tris," said Colton with breathy urgency. Then: "We cum at the same time, okay?" It was almost a command. Tristan wondered if he could obey, although he desperately wanted to. He went to all sorts of places in his mind in the endeavour to make this possible.

"Getting close, Tris!" A few minutes later: "Nearly there!"

Colton leaned in to kiss Tristan, but he couldn't reach. Tristan craned his neck and opened his mouth. Colton spat with great accuracy and at the same time they both came--Colton inside Tristan and Tristan all over his bedding.

"Fuck!" laughed Colton after a few seconds of recovery. "I think I'm still coming inside you. Feel as if I've turned m'self inside out."

"Stay in there," Tristan managed to gasp, his heart still pounding so much that his temples throbbed.

"It feels good with me inside you?"

"Yeah, real nice. Real intimate,' he dared to add.

"Yeah, for me too."

Colton cradled Tristan for a while and the only sounds that could be heard were the beatings of their own hearts and the gentle swoosh of Deshawn's punka above Tristan's bed.

"Come on, into the shower!" Tristan was reluctant. "Do I have to carry y'all?"

"No," laughed Tristan. "Just help me up. I feel so weak."

"Yeah, that's often the side affect of Colty-luvvin."

"There should be a warning on the box."

Colton stood and then extended his arm to pull the limp Tristan up from the mattress on the floor. They made for the new bathroom--the jewel in the crown of the loft conversion.

Colton adjusted the fixtures so that the water was pleasantly tepid on the hot, sticky night and the stinging and pulsating functions were not engaged on this occasion. Colton proceeded to gently but firmly wash Tristan and used the handheld spray to rinse away the suds.

"There's a lot of cum running down y'leg. Can't you keep it inside?"

"I'm trying, Colt, but I can't close up."

"Let me look."

Tristan bent over and presented his rump for critical inspection.

"Humm," said Colton and then, "Humm," again.

"What is it?"

"It looks like Anusitis, but it could be caused by trauma. Have you been inserting foreign objects into your shitter?"

"You were born here, weren't you?"

"I've got some salve from Doc Baddeley for anal swelling."

"Shit! Does she know you've been fucking me?"

"I told her it was for a girlfriend."

"Good."

"Yeah, and she said to say you're due for your flu injection."

"Fuck!"

"Come on, wash me."

Tristan used the gel and made circles on Colton's footballer-pectoral muscles. "Do m'nips," he commanded, looking down. Tristan pressed harder and dragged his palm over the horseshoe piercing, making Colton shudder. Tristan left off and moved to soap Colton's thighs and calves. "While y'all down there..."

"But you've just cum--twice."

"Yeah, but I reckon there's another one in there an' I reckon it could go right down y'throat."

"But isn't it sore?" asked Tristan, hefting the organ in question.

"Nothin' you're hot mouth can't soothe."

Although it was late, Tristan found he wasn't so tired after all and dropped to his knees. He put his lips to the soapy organ and kissed it and then opened his jaws and took it inside--making sure to deepthroat it while Colton was still flaccid--a trick he first learnt reading Capistrano Swallows, a college story set in Orange County. It took a long time, but Colton came again, this time squatting over the supine form of Tristan on the slatted bench.

"Whoa! That weren't easy," gasped Colton. "I sure like it when you swallow it."

"Yeah, I know you do."

"But you must like it too."

"It is more blessed to give than to receive."

"Well, I'm giving you a load an' y'all givin' me head."

"Makes me feel good to make you feel good--it's a `thank you'."

"Now y'got Coty in both ends but I'm plum beat."

"We say knackered at home."

"I'm plum knackered. Bed now--your one."

"We've got Mrs Perez coming in the morning and we've got to drive to Temple pick up Holly."

"Not bringing his old truck?"

"No, Grandpa said he couldn't," said Tristan as he settled down. "Sex with you is fantastic, Colt."

"Do m'best. Don't want you alookin' to Holly or De, do I?"

"Fat chance," said Tristan sleepily, but with a contented smile.

The alarm on Tristan's phone rang. "Colt, wake up, Mrs Perez will be here in five minutes!"

Colton stirred reluctantly. "So what?"

"I want to straighten up so he won't think we're pigs."

"You're cleaning for the cleaner?"

"She's not our slave and I won't have her exploited. She does like a chat, so I think we should go out for a run while she's working."

"No time to get me off?"

"After last night? Go wank in the bathroom." Tristan pointed theatrically in that direction and left the grumbling Colton to go down to the house.

"Mrs Perez, you're early!"

"I like to make an early start," said the charwoman who was busy stacking the dishwasher.

"Here let me do that," said Tristan. "We had one of the professors and his wife for dinner. Only Colton is here and the others will be coming over the next week."

"That's all right. I'll just do downstairs today. You go and put those bottles in the recycling."

Tristan blushed, for there was five dead wine bottles plus an empty Frangelico one of a most decadent design--this had accompanied vanilla ice-cream, which had constituted dessert. Also in the living room were some of his books and Colton's camouflage briefs flaunted themselves on the floor--how these had ended up there, Tristan had no idea.

Mrs Perez was mopping the kitchen floor when Tristan left to get Colton for their run. They took a new route along the quiet streets of their neighbourhood and along the course of Mosquito Creek, which was flanked by parkland.

"Your ass ain't too sore?"

"A bit, but I'll be okay. What about your cock?"

"Put on some of the Doc's salve and these shorts have a built-in jock."

Just when Tristan was reaching exhaustion, Colton stopped and dropped to the ground and commenced push-ups and then sit-ups. He did not spare himself and it was an impressive sight. All Tristan could do was stand and watch.

Mrs Perez had finished when they had returned and Tristan made her some coffee--dirtying the clean kitchen again, this being the way of such things. "Look, Mrs Perez, I will leave your money in this pigeon hole" He indicated the place which now had her name on a little card fitted into the brass frame.

Mrs Perez appreciated the tax-free convenience of cash and opined that the arrival of the other seven students would not create too much work for her. Tristan wasn't so sure, but thanked her and then it was time to depart for the town of Temple where the Greyhound bus would be depositing Hollis McGarvie in two hours.

The drive west left opportunity to talk and Tristan found he was embroiled in one of their usual disagreements.

"Well, while we are at it, it's just pecans', not pecan nuts'. It's pecan pie', not pecan nut pie'," complained Colton.

"But it's walnuts' and peanuts' and coconuts'. We don't say peabutter'," countered Tristan.

"It don't matter, it just is. Just like y'say basketball'--I bounced a fuckin' basketball'. It ain't `a basketball ball'."

"I've heard you say `pizza pie'--that's a tautology."

"Well, you say `PIN number'.

Well, it's write to your mother' not write your mother'--unless she's slumped sideways and while we're at it, it is one hundred and ten' not one hundred ten'."

"So you ain't going to apply for US citizenship anytime soon?" laughed Colton.

"Shit, Colt, I never even contemplated that--no offence--it's just that I don't feel like an American. Not yet, anyhow."

"It'd mean you could vote."

"That's no temptation. Would you ever give up American citizenship?"

"You mean to become a British citizen?"

"British subject, but yeah--say if you lived there."

"Don't rightly know. The Queen's cool."

"Well, it's fun to argue about it." Tristan turned and grinned at Colton.

"Hey! Watch out, Tris. Keep your eyes on the road."

Tristan straightened up. "Well, if they drove on the proper side..."

"This is the proper side. Only you limeys drive on the left."

"Not true. They drive on the left in lots of countries." Colton snorted. "Japan, India--there's a billion people who know which is the correct side--and Australia and New Zealand and the West Indies, Indonesia--there's another quarter billion, Malaysia and most of Africa."

"Don't count none..." And so they argued on until they came to Temple.

"Holly!" cried Tristan when he spotted him on the sidewalk (or pavement' if we were arguing) and gave him a big hug that, midway, he thought might be too girly. Hollis, however, was seemingly unfazed and hugged back. Colton gave him a bro hug' with just one arm and Tristan thought he must learn how to do these.

"Long ride," said Hollis as he wheeled two large suitcases to the truck.

"Summer good?" asked Colton as they got under way.

"Yeah, I suppose so, but I'm really lookin' forward to the new semester--you know, football an' the new place an' all."

"How was the Stampede?" asked Tristan.

"Fantastic! You shoulda bin there, Tris. Here, look at this." He passed over his phone to Tristan who was now a passenger.

"Wow! Colt, it's Holly riding a bucking bronco." Indeed, there was Hollis in a western shirt and Stetson hanging onto a short rope of an energetic mount.

"Well, I only lasted about fifteen seconds but it was sure fun. Freaked Kimberly of course."

"Was SueEllen impressed?"

"She sure was and she put iodine on my cuts an' bruises."

"And the new deacon?"

"He won't be a problem no more."

"Because he can't ride rodeo?"

"No, because Grady fixed him."

"How?"

"Grady is at the Church Bible Study Camp in Caprock Canyons an he's in this shed where he's havin' a wank in this hidey hole. Two of the Sunday School teachers come in to get some liquor that they've hidden there and Grady can hear 'em talkin'. Seems as if this deacon has been screwing one of 'em an' she's complainin' to the other one that he's a lousy fuck--can't get it up or somethin'--she's real disappointed an' bad mouthin' him. Brady tells his buddy who is SueEllen's younger sister's boyfriend and so it gets back to her. She won't be wastin' her time with a dud when she's got a firecracker like yours truly."

"Neat piece o'work, Holly," said Colton. "And how is the little stud?"

"Never home an' he's gettin' it regular from this Brooklyn bitch. This summer has sure made him grow up."

"You been getting SuEllen's tongue in y'ass?"

"That's a might personal, Stone, but yeah. She ain't a patch on you though, Tris. Tongue's too little an' she ain't real enthusiastic."

"Thanks," said Tristan sarcastically.

"Yeah, the bus has sure made me a randy dude--the vibrations."

"You want road head, Holly?" said Colton.

"You'd suck m'dick?"

"Not me, dumbass! Tristan."

"Hey!" said Tristan who felt that he should not be prostituted, even for Hollis.

"Can't be `roadhead' unless I was drivin'," said Hollis.

"Yes, it can," said Colton. "We're on the road."

"No, it's got to be the passenger givin' it to the driver."

"That don't matter. Two passengers can do it. The driver can do a passenger if it were possible."

"That's not so," said Tristan. I read that it is the driver in cruise control doing the passenger."

"No!" proclaimed Hollis. That ain't roadhead; it ain't the definition."

"It was in Oversize Load..."

"We don't want to hear about it!" shouted Colton.

"That was a story about a college student who was hitchhiking along the I-40 when this trucker..."

"I will stop right here and I'll toss you out of this fuckin' truck, Tristan Isley."

"That's practically the exact words that Hank said to Timmy. Tossed him off inside the truck too--in the sleeper."

"No more stupid jerk off story!"

"All right, but you won't get to hear what happened to Jimmy Hoffa."

"What happed to Hoffa?" asked Hollis.

Thus encouraged, Tristan resumed the story, as he best recalled it and, with periodic interjections form Hollis, it occupied the hours until they regained the house on Baxter Drive.

Hollis had dumped his bags in the room he was to share with Parker and was enjoying a beer and pizza on the screened porch with Tristan and Colton. "Sure is nice out here." Hollis put his feet up on another chair and relaxed his elongated form. He kept glancing out at the backyard. "Fine piece of work, that," he said tossing his head.

"You did a great job. We'll have some great nights out there," said Tristan tilting his beer in the direction of the brick patio. "Have you done your homework? Have you got your `three'?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, referencing Rachel's `homework'. "I've got three things I can cook."

"Well?" asked Colton.

"Ribs with m'secret sauce, porch chops with apple--that's a casserole--and steak with a red wine n'pepper sauce. Colt?"

"I'm learnin' to make curry..."

"God! That'll give us all the runs."

"Shut the fuck up, man. It's good. A fish one and a chicken one, beer butt chicken an' steak with mushroom sauce--an' I can steam chicken breasts."

"That's fantastic," said Hollis.

"Yeah, well you just follow the recipe on y'phone. Tris has been helpin' me."

"So if nine of us have three different things...that's..."

"Twenty-seven dishes on the menu--more that enough for a restaurant," completed Tristan.

That night after they had been for a run under Colton's supervision they played pool in their underwear. Tristan won three games to one.

"You interested in History, Holly?" said Colton as he put his cue in the rack.

"Nope, can't say I pay much mind t'history."

"Oh, then you wouldn't be interested in seeing a porn classic of the 1980s?"

"How classic?"

"Toni Della Reeves in Magna Cum Laude."

"Never heard of her."

"Man, you're education is sure lacking. She was the top porn model when VHS was new."

"She'd be a grandmother now," said Tristan.

"Thanks for spoilin' it, dude," said Colton. "Though you've met my gramma."

"Yeah, she's great, Colt. Must have been quite a `babe' in her day."

"Probably a slut, if we knew the truth. Holly, she looks like Pamela Anderson, but way hotter--Toni, I mean not Gramma."

"Yeah? And this movie?"

"One of the first full length, multi-racial porn videos made on tape."

"Well, if you recommend it. What about Tristan?"

"He can watch the dicks."

"Is it pre-AIDS?"

"Yeah, Tris, no condoms."

Colton got his way and they all lay on Colton's mattress, close, so they could see the laptop screen.

The grainy movie began with an awful screeching sound track.

"Hammond organ and saxophone is an unfortunate combo," opined Tristan. Colton turned the level down.

"That's her!" exclaimed Colton after a lengthy roll of credits. "She's supposed to be a college student."

"Yeah, she's pretty hot," conceded Hollis. "Gee those old phones are crazy and so loud!"

"I told you it was historic."

They watched for some more minutes in silence. "When's somethin' goin' to happen?"

"This is backstory, Holly, they're building up a story first."

"Well, we've seen her say goodbye to her fiancé who is going to drive up to Seattle to close a business deal on an advertising account for a supermarket chain while she has had an argument on her phone with one of her girlfriends..."

"Roxy"

"Roxy, whose boyfriend has had to report for duty at the police station. Then she's correcting term papers because she is a professor in Sexology a UCLA..."

"Yeah, but wait on. The pool boy will be coming."

"O God! Another phone call--just get the fuck on with it."

"Yeah but look at the cool car--that's a Fleetwood."

"Here's the pool boy. He's got a pretty big dick for a kid, Tris."

They watched on for another fifteen minutes.

"That's not how you suck a cock!" complained Hollis. "And Roxy needs to trim her bush"

"That wallpaper is terrible," said Tristan.

Colton turned it off. "Yeah, I guess it don't measure up to porn today. No HD. I'll switch to a lesbian one that's m'favouite at the moment."

"Does it have a name and backstory?" asked Hollis.

"Nope. Just a number and we don't even know what they do."

"This is better," said Hollis. "They're fuckin' hot!"

"Shorts off!" commanded Colton. "You too, Tris."

Colton and Hollis were stroking their cocks, with their eyes glued to the screen. Tristan contented himself by looking at them while stroking his own.

"Trouble with today's porn is that it don't last long. I've got another lined up."

Matters continued. Hollis asked for some lube and Colton flipped the cap and dribbled a stream onto Hollis' `piece' before returning his attention to the action on the screen. Tristan was bored and fidgeted and eventually Colton noticed it.

"Sorry, Tris. I suppose this is as bad as football?"

"Oh well, I'm learning a lot about gynaecology."

"Isn't he the best?" laughed Colton. "Très drôle."

"Huh?"

"Would you like to lick some jock butt, Tris? I know it won't be a new experience to some."

"With you watchin', Stone?"

"Yeah, but Tris can kiss my shitter too."

"How do we do it?" asked Tristan.

Colton positioned some pillows beneath his rump and that of his teammate. It was awkward to balance the laptop, but they managed and now Tristan' viewing comfort did not have to be factored. In fact Tristan was now scoping out the acreage of muscular flesh, russet and blonde.

"Holly likes his butt spanked in the locker room." This was a lie, but Tristan smacked him in good faith. Hollis yelped but did not take offense. Tristan smacked Colton for good measure. "Start with Holly first," said Colton for reasons Tristan couldn't fathom.

Tristan took an experimental lick. "Might be a bit ripe down there," said Hollis.

"Tris won't care."

Indeed Tristan wasn't to be put off by the muscular arse of any young footballer or rodeo rider.

Hollis was making noises above him, but Tristan couldn't be sure if it was the rimming he was dishing out or from the video they were watching, which seemed to be about a female penitentiary.

"Me now!" said Colton.

Hollis had been responding so nicely that Tristan was reluctant to swap arses, but he did. Colton was always much tighter that Hollis and Tristan struggled to part his cheeks and Colton didn't help with his flexing of them, which only added to the struggle.

"Bum's up!" said Tristan at last.

The boys rolled over on their stomachs and rested on their elbows, side-by-side, and watched the screen that way. Tristan now worked harder and swapped repeatedly between the two of them. By their moans he could tell that it was his tongue, lips and scruffy beard that was now exciting them. Tristan's face was red and covered in his own spittle. He was now able to penetrate Hollis with his tongue rolled into a point. Hollis was going nuts. Colton selfishly reached behind and pulled Tristan off by the hair and planted him firmly in his own crevice. Hollis was left gasping.

Eventually Tristan went back to Hollis. "You're really opened up, Holly. Do you like that?"

"Yeah, I feel like cheap whore"

"Lemme see," said Colton and he leapt from the bed with his cock bobbing and dripping obscenely. "Part 'em Holly."

Hollis didn't demure and parted his own butt cheeks to satisfy the perverted curiosity of his quarterback teammate.

"Shit Holly, you are a slut; you're fuckin' gapin'!"

"Don't go gettin' any ideas, Stone."

"Just let me look. Jesus fuck!"

Hollis' aperture started to close. Colton forestalled this by shoving his own tongue into the wide receiver. Hollis groaned. "You're a sick fuck..."

"Just m'finger, Holly. I gotta do it."

Tristan watched in fascination as Colton lowered his index finger towards Hollis' mouth. "Don't hurt me, Colt," he said in a soft and pleading voice.

"Only wanna make y'feel good. Only hurt y'as much as nec'sary."

Colton took his wetted finger and, after giving his teammate another lick and using a glob of spit as lubricant, eased his finger into Hollis.

Hollis let out a groan. "That feels so good."

"Now get yourself off, bro."

Hollis began in earnest while Colton drove his finger in as far as it would go and hooked the last joint.

After a few minutes, Hollis came in a big rush. He was exhausted and flopped back on the bed, displaying a beatific smile. Colton withdrew his finger very slowly and then shook it to restore the circulation.

"That's what it should be like every time, Holly. You need stimulation in your rear--I don't just mean gay sex. You need to find a girl who'll do it."

"Not so easy. Girls is pretty conservative."

"No, plen'y o'chicks I know would do it, if you ask 'em right. In the meantime, you might have to use Tristan or me--or Parks?"

"No way, he's more conservative than SueEllen. I mean he's a great guy, but getting' me off is definitely not on his radar."

"Should help a bud," said Colton, shaking his head sadly.

"Colt, it's pretty gay," said Tristan. "You can't expect people to go against their natures, you said so yourself."

"Am I sick for liking m'ass played with?" asked Hollis, now wracked by doubt.

"No," said Tristan and Colton in unison.

"I have heap o'dudes askin' about ass-play--that what it's called--at the clinic."

Tristan was pretty sure Colton was lying, but thought it was an example of his good bedside manner.

"What I said--that time--about calling it a man-pussy, that was just me pullin' y'chain, Holly."

"Yeah, I know that. Y'still a sick fuck, Stone."

"Back to the video?" asked Colton.

It was not long before Tristan noticed that the other two had fallen asleep. He smiled to himself and gently turned off the computer and slipped off the mattress and tiptoed to the other end of the loft and crawled into his own bed. He realized Colton hadn't come and Tristan wondered if that was dangerous.

When Tristan awoke in the September morning light, he dressed quietly and chanced a peek at Colton's bed. It's owner and Hollis were still naked and sound asleep. It was a scene both erotic and innocent. Tristan stood contemplating it for some minutes and then left to go for a jog around the neighbourhood.

When he returned, Colton and Hollis were up and having breakfast.

"De will be here at noon," said Colton. "We gotta meet with Coach at 2:00."

Just then Tristan's phone rang.

"Hi, Cylvah," he said then did a lot of listening. "Yeah, of course. See you then." The others looked up from their bacon. "Cylvah's paying us a visit."

As Cylvah had asked to stay, Tristan made sure that the former maid's room was made ready. He felt like he was Mrs Pike, the housekeeper at his late grandmother's house in Surrey, as he fussed with sheets and towels and then decided he'd better dust the horizontal surfaces lest he be shamed. Meanwhile, Colton and Hollis threw the football back and forth on the front lawn.

Cylvah turned up in her smart Mercedes van at the same time as Deshawn arrived in an old wreck of a car driven by one of his teammates and there was pleasant chaos.

"Wow! I love your hair," exclaimed Tristan. Cylvah gave a tight smile and put a hand to her head as if to make sure it was still there. In place of her characteristic peroxide perm of slightly drag queen proportions, Cylvah now wore her hair short and it was in that silver-grey shade called `ash'.

"Thanks, Tris. I really am grey you know--I went grey real early--in my twenties and I wanted a change. Does it look all right?"

"It looks great. Very sophisticated."

"Thanks, Tris." She gave a small, guilty smile.

"And Dad?"

"Well, that's what I came down here to talk about. Can we talk later?" she asked, sotto voce. Cylvah looked distressed, which surprised Tristan, and he assured her that they could talk in the afternoon when the others went off to training.

Tristan and Colton managed to make sandwiches and potato salad. Deshawn was showing Cylvah and his friend around the house--more particularly his remarkable steam punk bedroom. It was too hot to eat in the backyard so they had lunch on the screened porch, sitting on the chairs that Cylvah had renovated just a few months before. Then the footballers were gone.

"It's about my hair," began Cylvah. "No, it's about my art lessons. Remember when you said I should try painting classes?"

"Yeah," said Tristan. "I thought you'd be good."

"Well, I found a course and enrolled. I really love it, Tris. They were all so nice and they were all ages, boys and girls. We have a man for drawing--you know pencil and charcoal--no life drawing yet, just still life. We have a woman for painting--although we haven't gone very far with that yet, but it's the most fun. We do a few classes in Art History too. That's a bit harder and creates homework. It's three hours a week."

"Well, that's terrific. But your hair?"

"That's just it. There are some really impressive ladies doin' the course--college educated women and some retired from good careers--you know what I mean."

"And some of these women have that sort of look?"

"Yes, that's it exactly, Tris," she confessed. "They were all lookin' at me funny an' I really wanted to fit it--I hope you don't think I'm bein' stupid--and I admired them too. They all seemed to know a lot about Art and stuff. So I guess I just copied."

"Well, that's not so bad. Everyone likes to change their image once in a while. I started to dress like the other students here. We all meet people who inspire us."

"So you don't think I was being weak and...I don't know what?"

"You're an Artist, Cylvah. You can't be bound by rules. Did Dad cut up rough?"

Cylvah nodded and looked down. Tristan couldn't tell if there were tears or not.

"What did he say? Was it him who said you were being weak?"

"He said he liked me as a blonde--I'm not really blonde--at least not any more. And he didn't want me to change."

"Perhaps he meant that as a compliment."

"Maybe, but I want to change. I am a human being," she proclaimed defiantly and Tristan thought unkindly of John Hurt, The Elephant Man.

"And?"

"Well, I said I might be interested in doing a diploma at Community College if these Art classes go okay and he said, What do you want to waste your time on that for?' and, You'll never cope.' I started to cry and then he said I could do what I liked, but--well, you know your father."

"Not exactly supportive, is he?"

"No. If it doesn't concern him, he finds it hard to take an interest."

"He doesn't handle change well, Cylvah. That may explain why he doesn't want you to change your hair."

"But what about me and the Art classes and a diploma? Don't he want me to change to make myself better?" There was a thoughtful pause. "I'm frightened he'll stop loving me. And I do love him, Tris. I'd even give up the Art."

"Yeah, I know you love him. You've said it yourself; he finds it hard to show love and can appear cold--maybe is cold--so now you've got to take the same medicine that you've been dishing out to me."

"Yeah, I figured that out on the drive down here. It might do him good to find me gone for a few days--if that's all right with you. Course he might not even notice I'm not there if Mrs Torres can iron his shirts."

"One thing you said: about making yourself better; you don't have to make yourself into something that is not in you already, Cylvah. It's a bit like being gay. As you are, you are interested in Art and stuff and that is an important thing about you--who you are--right now and even before now-- even if you don't have a diploma. That part of you can't be taken away."

There were a few tears now and it was a moment before Cylvah could speak.

"I'm doing it for myself, not to make me better for anyone else."

"Don't give up your classes. You are your own woman. You ran a successful business, remember, and you run another one now."

"I suppose that's true. My clients will be wondering where I am."

"Do you want me to talk to Dad?"

"Maybe, but not just yet." Cylvah tried for a brave smile and there was no dreadful laugh on this occasion, which Tristan took as a sign of her real distress.

"Come and I'll show you the painting that Mum gave me."

The boys returned from football training in high spirits. With them were two freshmen walk-ons, Ralph and Bobby. There were fewer newbies than in the previous year, but like the others, they were to be residents of Charles C. Selecman House and Tristan once again marvelled at how time flew.

The talk was inescapably about football and there was little that Tristan and Cylvah could do except listen. The cooking roster had not yet started so all three residents of `HMS Beagle', and Cylvah too, pitched in to barbecue on the new grill in its quaint housing on the new patio in the renovated back yard. They ate late when the day had cooled slightly and there was beer, despite the tender age of the freshmen footballers of enormous size, and who were beginning to think college life was very fine indeed.

It was late when Ralph and Bobby departed for home and the others settled into their respective beds. Colton was rubbing his chest where his silver horseshoe had been removed for the football season. Tristan was busy on his phone and was ensconced in Colton's bed without even asking.

"Dad's being a dick to Cylvah. That's why she's here."

"Though it must be something like that."

"She's taking Art lessons and has cut her hair. I think Dad disapproves or is looking down his nose at the poor bitch. Makes me mad."

"Well, y'all better leave it to them to sort it out, if you don't mind me sayin' it."

"Yeah, you're right. I had an idea and I want to run it past you."

"Yep?"

"Well, Cylvah's interested in painting as you know and I thought I'd take her up to Chicago to see all the Monets and stuff in the Art Institute. She was mentioning `the painter who did all those waterlilies' and I just thought..."

"You mean fly up?"

"Yeah, from Dallas and just stay one night. This week would be good as I have no classes yet and Cylvah could be back for her Friday Art class. What do you think?"

"I think that you're a pretty nice dude, Tristan Isley. That's real kind seein' y'couldn't stand her a year ago."

"Well, you like her too. There's no harm in her. She's soft hearted--too soft hearted for Dad."

"You get a special treat tonight for bein' so nice," said Colton as he threw one of his flip flops with great accuracy and managed to turn off the lights.

"What is it?"

"I'll show you."

And Colton did. More than once.

"I'm getting a bit tired of the waterlilies, Tristan," said Cylvah wearily.

"Yeah. One subject and 250 paintings of it is a bit much. And most of them seem to be here."

They were in the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue, having flown in just that morning from Dallas-Fort Worth where Cylvah had left her Mercedes. Cylvah had sent a text to Tristan's father, but had not spoken to him. Her small act of defiance gave her a thrill.

"The trick to art galleries is not to try and see everything," said Tristan as he strolled in that stiff-legged gait that we all adopt when holding a guidebook and looking up at pictures. "It's really tiring." Cylvah agreed and was at that moment sitting down in the middle of the empty room with a shoe off and rubbing the sole of her right foot. "The other trick is to buy a good catalogue so you can look at the pictures on your couch at home."

Cylvah gave her trademark laugh. "But it's good to see these pictures in real life, Tris. I mean you can get a better feel for the colour and can even see the brush strokes up real close."

They moved on to the famous Seurat and Cylvah said that while she did not like it, she found putting the paint on in little dots was interesting' but must have been very time consuming'. Tristan had to agree with her and they passed on to the Cezannes and some of the other Impressionists.

"So they all knew each other?" asked Cylvah.

"Yeah, sort of, I think. Manet was the oldest and Monet lived into the 'forties. They were sometimes rivals and sometimes learned off each other--I haven't studied Art History."

"But will you help me when I have to pick one and write about him for the course?"

"Sure."

Cylvah beamed and took Tristan's arm and they left the gallery and emerged into the bustle of Chicago. They had rooms at the Congress Plaza Hotel nearby and it had a convenient cocktail bar in which to unwind after the exhaustion of contemplating Great Art.

Cylvah had brought her thick catalogue and was flicking through the images as the waiter brought them their drinks--Negroni cocktails, which were Tristan's treat.

"I'm so glad you are in my life, Tris," said Cylvah at one point, perhaps under the influence of the liquor.

"Me too," said Tristan and smiled and indeed he felt he was having a good time.

They met again for dinner and talked about Art and then the topic drifted to Tristan's father and then to Tristan himself.

"What are you going to do about Colt, Tris?"

"What do you mean?' asked Tristan as his eye roved the dessert menu.

"You know what I mean. You're in love with him."

There was a pause. "Well, maybe I have a little crush on him..." He couldn't meet her eyes.

"Tris!"

"All right, I'm in love with him, but he doesn't love me in the same way. He's straight, Cylvah."

"Oh dear! Poor Tristan." She extended her hand affectionately. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Do about it? What can I do? I can't alter what is."

"Have you told him?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"Well, maybe you should just do nothing and see what happens."

"Is that your plan of action?"

"Well, you could give him up and find another boyfriend."

"I don't want to do that, Cylvah--I love him too much. I don't think I want another boyfriend."

"You couldn't look at another guy?"

"Well, `look', maybe, but I haven't wanted someone else even when the opportunity presented itself. I don't think I could function without Colt now. I don't want to go back to how I was a year ago. You saw what I was like. I was so unhappy and made you and Dad unhappy too."

Cylvah didn't deny it. "I like you as are you are now. You're a lovely person, Tris. Colt is lucky to have you."

"He can have me all right, but I'm not sure I can have him--in fact I'm quite sure he's never going to give up girls for me or any other boy."

"So?"

"So it's in God's hands Cylvah--except I don't believe in God."

Cylvah was quiet. The waiter came and asked for their dessert orders and they exchanged a few words about this. When he was gone, Cylvah spoke in a manner that Tristan had never heard before. Her voice was low and trembled with passion.

"When I met your dad--when he asked me to decorate the apartment--I didn't know where it would go. I was even a little scared, because, you know, your father can be a little bit fearsome if you don't know him, Tris. He keeps his feelings all shut up inside. You're like that too, but maybe not quite so buttoned up." Tristan wondered if she were correct and felt a little numb at the personal turn that the conversation had taken. It could not be undone and there was no going back. Cylvah fiddled with her spoon perhaps because she too was embarrassed. "But I was attracted to him from the get go and I thought that he was so sophisticated and so intelligent, not like the douches I had known all my life, and I thought to myself, `Cylvah don't question it, girl, or it just might evaporate like the dew on the sorghum. Don't think bout the future, girl, because there is no forever'. There is no forever, Tris."

Tristan felt himself tearing up. He nodded vigorously. "I'll try not to question it. I'll just let it flow. I have no choice anyway. Is that what love is, Cylvah? When you have no choice?"

"No, Tris, we always have choices."

"That's what Colt says, `Always choose love'--he said that when I was dealing with Mum."

"And did it work?"

"Yeah, I guess so. At least we're talking and I now realise that she's sick."

"Well, he's a smart guy."

"Yeah, but he's intuitive too; he thinks with his...well, let's just say it's more than just with his brain."

Cylvah gave her awful laugh and people in the restaurant turned to look. Tristan checked that his wine glass had not cracked.

"I don't know what will happen with Colton and me--maybe just like with you and Dad. I'm not quite 21 yet and Colt's only just 20, although he's had a lot more girlfriends that Monet's painted waterlilies. We're students, so we might only have three years together--although I'm planning to do honours and I think Colt might too. It is probable that we'll go our separate ways after that. Colt mentioned studying in London. Maybe we'll never see each other again. And Colt will get married to a girl one day--probably a very curvy one who likes sex and wears yellow patent high heels."

"So it's best to just try to be happy today?" suggested Cylvah.

"Yeah, we can't always be waiting for later when we believe we can be truly happy. Schopenhauer said that. Of course he thought that true happiness was an illusion.

"He was some smart dude, Tris?"

"A rather gloomy German philosopher, Cylvah, but I was awake for that lecture."

"So, what you learn in college helps you in real life?"

"Yeah, sometimes, often when you least expect it."

"It's great talking to you, Tris."

"I've liked our chat. Hey! We'll tackle the American painters tomorrow before our flight?"

"That would be cool, Tris. I want to see that one all about loneliness--you know the diner. It makes me feel real uncomfortable."

"Yeah, Edward Hopper. I think there's one by Thomas Hart Benton too. You might like him because he painted rural life and there's lots of movement in the way he painted--everything seems to be writhing." Tristan made undulating movements with his hands.

Cylvah nodded. "Our group is going to the Dallas Museum. It will be good to have seen paintings here for comparison."

"When you travel with Dad, you should book yourself a tour of the galleries in those towns. They are usually quite good and the guides are used to tourists. I went on one for the Louvre with my School, but I was only 14 and too young to appreciate what I was seeing."

"Your upbringing was sure different to mine."

"I suppose I should be more grateful and less of a winey bitch?"

"Well..." Cylvah tilted her head to one side.

Tristan laughed. "You don't have to say it."

When Tristan got off the bus, there was Colton in the truck to meet him. A feeling washed over him like a warm wave, as it always did when he saw Colt after any lapse in time.

"Yeah, we had a good time," said Tristan in answer to Colt's inquiry, "But I expect Dad is pretty mad at me for interfering between him and Cylvah. You said not to. She rang him, but I didn't hear what he said. Cylvah looked pretty upset so she took me straight to the bus station."

"Shit! Jus' when you was getting' on."

"It's always like that with Dad."

These words were no sooner uttered than Tristan's phone rang. "Hi Dad..." Colton was trying to drive but was listening too. "That's unfair, Dad, that's not what it was like...Cylvah wanted to go...No, I haven't been talking to her...I wasn't interfering...No!...No, Dad!...You told me to be nice to her, remember...She won't be making a fool of herself--she's interested in Art...Painting makes her happy, gives her a way of expressing herself...." There was a very long pause, but Colton couldn't make out Mark Isley's angry words. "...But you want her to be happy, don't you?...You should be encouraging her...No, I'm not being presumptuous...Dad!..."

"Hung up?"

"Yeah"

"Well, maybe he's feeling a bit guilty, Tris."

"Not Dad."

"He'll come round. Y'all didn't do nothin' wrong. If he can't cope with change, he won't want Cylvah to change, but he won't be kickin' her out any time soon."

"I hope not, but he can't keep her a prisoner. She's her own person, just like Mum."

They had been sitting in the truck outside `HMS Beagle'. When Tristan looked out the window he saw three vehicles.

"Yeah, everyone's here. Isn't that cool?"

It was and Tristan was pleased when he went inside to see the house--his house--full.

Immediately it was clear that Alexinia was in charge and had organized the cooking roster, with Hollis explaining how money was to be electronically deposited in the food kitty and how the cooks were to draw on that for their food shopping. Tristan found even the arguments were good-natured fun. He found that he was to assist Carlos who was planning to cook `Carne-con-Chilli' (as he insisted that it should be called) and had already drawn up a shopping list that also included a big pot--as cooking for nine was always going to be a large scale operation.

Deshawn, meanwhile, was busy putting the finishing touches to the new fans on the porch. They were mounted almost vertically at opposite corners of the sloping ceiling and were just beyond head height--which was just as well as they had no guards. They idled--that is, they had no motors--but were connected to each other by a long thin, flapping belt made of leather. There was a second belt that was connected to a fan motor set a little apart. When De had finished, it would drive both fans in the most delightful way--in the manner of a Heath Robinson drawing. It was not, however, past the testing phase when the three footballers had to depart for their preseason training.

"What you doin' about Colt, Gayboy?"

Alexinia asked this as Tristan was helping her bring in things from her car.

"Why is everyone on my case? I'm not going to do anything. He's not my boyfriend."

"Still won't pop the question, Sugar?"

"There's no question to pop! He's straight! You must know that."

"Ah! There's straight and there's straight," observed Alexinia, cryptically.

"No there's not! He's straight. Did you hear him and Colt talk about the two new female interns in the Coaching Department?"

"There's talk and there's talk."

"Will you stop saying stuff like that to make yourself sound wise! What are you going to do about Carlos?"

"We're good as long as that boy keeps me satisfied and don't change the subject."

"Well, I've been reading lots of literature--well, on-line stories, actually--and none of them quite describe our relationship. Mostly the quarterback or the wrestler or the pitcher or whatever has turned gay by chapter five--that's usually by the Homecoming football game. What is Homecoming, Alex?"

"White folks' stuff--y'all don't need to know."

"Well, in some of them the quarterback character beats up the faggy roommate or turns him into a personal slave or allows the whole team to gang rape him. Usually the roommate just accepts his degraded position and is resigned to the fact that the rest of his life is ruined."

"Sounds a might depressing," said Alex who was only half listening while she was busy hanging up her clothes in the closet.

"Yeah, but Colt's not like that either."

"Well, what is he like?" asked Alex, suddenly and turning with her running spikes in her hand.

"You know what he's like."

"Nice guy who's a bit fond of himself?"

"Yeah, a fair description."

"And y'all feed his ego?" Tristan reluctantly nodded. "But he's good to you?"

"Definitely. Saved my life."

"But he doesn't want to have sex with you?"

"Well..."

"He uses you, but you don't mind." This was said as a statement of fact.

"Alex, you may well think that, but I couldn't possibly comment."

"Ha!"

"What does that mean?"

"We all knows y'all been doing stuff."

"And you guys don't care?"

"No, honey, as long as you ain't gettin' hurt."

"No, I'm not," said Tristan, forgetting an ache in his rump that he hoped was not an anal fissure. "So, you don't really believe Colt's gay?"

"No, I believe y'all, Sugar--I was jus' rattlin' y'chain."

"So what should I do about Colt?"

"Ain't this where we came in? Not for me to say."

"Go on."

"Do nothin'."

"That's your advise to the lovelorn?"

"`When the shepherd comes home in peace, the milk is sweet', my gramma always says."

"Your grandmother who worked at a post office in Birmingham? And what is that supposed to mean, anyway?"

"Don't rightly know, jus' used t'say it a heap."

"Well, I'm not going to spoil things by doing anything, Alex. Ask Grandma if that's okay with her."

"Y'all is a sweet boy, Tris." Still holding her running shoes, she kissed Tristan on the cheek. "If you should ever turn straight I might just trade-in Carlos."

"If Carlos should like a bit of boy bum, he could trade you in for me."

"Not happenin'."

They crossed the upper floor of the house to where Rachel and Leesha were rearranging their room. Leesha was attempting to set up an Ikea desk while Rachel was cross-legged on her bed.

"Never needed a desk before," complained Leesha as she searched for the Allen wrench, "But my work load will be heaps bigger this year."

"Yeah, y'all taking one proper subject," said Alexinia sarcastically.

"You try doing Psychology, bitch," said Rachel with humour from the bed. "Look how thick this book is."

"Not as thick as..."

"Shut up, Alex!" snapped Tristan. "I don't want to have to Hoover up cat fur."

"It's `vacuum'," said Alex.

"Did you do some reading in the vacation?" Tristan asked Leesha who was swearing at the desk that was still in pieces.

"Hold this!" she said. "I was too busy."

"Yeah, busy with that 14 year-old boy. Practically wore her out," said Rachel from the bed.

"Jamaal wasn't 14; he's nearly 18--will be a senior at Plano Senior High."

"How did you meet this stud?" asked Tristan.

"Hung around the playgound with candy," answered Rachel for her.

Leesha was just having some success with two elements of the desk and chose to ignore her roommate. "We were both doing work experience at my daddy's office. He's real smart and will be an attorney some day. Also he was a awesome screw, although lacking in experience."

"But made up for it with 'thusiasm?" suggested Alexinia.

"Sure did. Hated to break up with him, but it was just a holiday romance. He has a girlfriend who was away at Girl Scout camp. Am I shocking you, Tristan?"

"Of course not. I knew you were a slut when I first met you."

Tristan received a finger for his cheek. "Hey, what are you going to do about Colt?"

Alexinia doubled up with laughter and stumbled and knocked part of the desk over.

"What's so funny?" asked Rachel from the bed as Leesha jumped about trying to salvage pieces of desk.

"Everybody keeps asking me that," said Tristan in exasperation. "I'm not going to do anything. He's not my boyfriend. He's straight."

"Oh, we know he's straight," said Leesha. "We've ridden the `Colty train', haven't we, Rache?"

"He couldn't pull that off if his heart wasn't into hetro."

"Pity he now regards us as buddies'," reflected Leesha wistfully, "Although some buddies' seem to be exempt." She looked at Tristan over her psychology book.

"Hey, that's unfair!"

"No it ain't," said Rachel. Then after a thoughtful pause: "At least we can say that we had Colton Stone the quarterback as freshers."

"I suppose you bragged to all your bitchy girlfriends back home?" suggested Alexinia.

"Sure did!" proclaimed Rachel, "Although I might have neglected to mention your part, Leesh."

"Must fess-up, I did too--sure made that MistyLynn Sveboda green. She was picked as Prom Queen over me (Can you believe it?) and they'd all heard about Colton Stone."

"So he was just a trophy fuck to you?"

"No!" protested Rachel.

"Yes," confessed Leesha.

"I mean, yes," said Rachel

"No, of course not," said Leesha.

"I see," said Tristan turning to Alexinia and giving her a wink.

"So Colton will go on being your boyfriend but you won't be his," said Rachel looking as if she were reading this extraordinary statement from her textbook.

"That's an unusual way of looking at it and I'm not even sure if it makes sense."

"Well, we don't care, do we girls?"

The other two shook their heads.

"Do we have to talk to him?" threatened Leesha who now had the lower portion of the desk completed.

"God no! Just leave him alone. He's had enough problems with Madison Rusk and then Sharon Pellman, not to mention that crazy girl, Amy, who threatened to kill herself."

"So a well adjusted boy like yourself is just what the Quarterback needs?" said Alexinia.

"Do I detect sarcasm? I'm only what he needs until the next bimbo comes along--no offence, Rache, Leesh."

"None taken," said Leesha. "Work hard at it. Love to have Colt as m'real boyfriend though."

"Me too," said Rachel.

"Me three," said Alexinia and laughed.

"So I'm not going to do anything."

"Just let nature take its course, Sugar," advised Alexinia.

"Hey, Rache, you and me are cooking tonight."

"Already have the meat and veg in the slowcooker. I didn't know what time you'd be back. Will you help me make an apple pie?"

"Sure, if you trust me."

"Of course, and you can tell me all about Colt while you're peelin' the apples."

Colt was down to USMC silkies and the last of the pool players had departed the loft and the billiard table had reverted to a desk at the turn of a switch.

"I'm beat," said Colton, scratching himself. "Coach really worked our asses off today." He sniffed his armpit. "Probably should take a shower."

"No!" said Tristan hurriedly. "You smell hot."

"Like I said..."

"No, not hot in that sense."

"You want Colty's stench tonight?"

"Yeah, I do," confessed Tristan unashamedly.

"Well, loose that tee-shirt and those shorts. You plugged?"

"Yes sir," said Tristan sarcastically.

"I want you plugged for your benefit, Tris, so it don't hurt as much."

Tristan was not quite so sure, but changed the subject. "I just want to..."

"Say it."

"I just want to `cuddle'. Is that too gay?"

"Not gay enough, Roomy," said Colton returning Tristan's sarcasm and stood with his hands on his hips, grinning.

"You should be an underwear model," said Tristan looking up admiringly at the masculine form of his friend. His tree trunk legs and meaty arse filled the military-issue garment. They were loose, but Colton's cock could still be seen down the left leg.

"Are m'abs defined enough? Some of them dudes in the ads..."

"They look great, Colt, but-- you know-- not steroid-produced. You leaking?"

"Not yet."

"I want you leakin'," said Tristan, mimicking Colton's earlier tone.

"Come an' take 'em off," countered Colton. Tristan moved. "On y'knees, gay boy."

Tristan obliged and tried to keep from laughing.

"They all know we do stuff," said Tristan.

"Supposed they did. Worried?"

"Nope."

"Neither am I. Fuck 'em. When you're the quarterback, folks respect y'ass."

"And if your were dropped from the team?"

"Would you suck m'cock if I weren't a footballer?"

"Easy! Yes."

"Nice t'know that in case m'form slips. Now 'bout this cuddlin'; like this?"

"I want you to hold me and tell me about those muscle groups again."

"You really want me to hold you and tell you not to worry about y'dad."

"Yeah, that's true. And tell me that everything will be good between us."

"Tris! Of course everything will be good between us. Don't worry so much, dude. Enjoy the moment."

There was silence for a short while until it was broken by Tristan: "It's nice being here with you."

"Y'better kiss me seein' we're this close. It's not gay, of course," said Colton, clearly not serious. "We'll look as it as practice for when you get a guy."

"Or for when you get one."

"That ain't happenin', " said Colton, firmly. "On top of me so I can hold you."

Tristan wriggled until he was face down on Colton who was on his back. Their lips were practically touching, so it would have seemed wasteful not to kiss.

They eventually broke.

"I like you holding me. I like feeling your muscles."

"Yeah, I'll keep you safe and everything's gonna to be all right."

"Them's the right words, Colt," said Tristan with amusement, realizing that this was merely acting out a fantasy.

"Nothin's going to get you, Tris, not past this stud's brachioradialis."

"What's that?"

Colton flexed his arms and Tristan was squeezed tighter.

Tristan sighed and laid his cheek on Colton's shoulder. With the flat of his hand he could feel Colton's heart in its slow, metronomic beating.

"Cylvah said something interesting." Tristan could tell Colton was listening, although no words were spoken. "She said nothing's forever and not to question love or it might just evaporate." Colton didn't reply, but instead held him close and concurred with Cylvah's observation with a kiss on Tristan's lips that was somehow at once forceful, but also incredibly tender in the way only someone imbued with great strength--both physical and of character--could get away with.

Tristan was not numbed, but quickened into life. He searched his mind for the precedent for such a kiss, from Colton or anyone else. He thought of Romeo and Juliet but dismissed the Bard who had long tormented him at School; of Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan, of whose kiss Colton wrote in his English essay was too sexless'--earning him a B' from his professor; of Rhett and Scarlet--a kiss irrevocably tainted by the Civil War; Of Carey Grant and Ingrid Bergman moving effortlessly across an apartment locked in an embrace while under the direction of Hitchcock; of Judas' kiss, which from his Greek he knew was of the kind called kataphileó and for which there was no English translation; of the kisses in bronze by Rodin and in oil paint and gold leaf by that Austrian painter whose name for the moment Tristan could not recall but we know to be Herr Gustav Klimt; of the kiss shared by Matthew and Braxton as they tore off their UCLA singlets in Wrestling Matt--a less celebrated work, it has to be conceded.

It was, in fact, the kiss of an ardent young man whose kisses still tasted of the joy of promise and were, as yet, untainted by the meretricious.

"That was nice," said Tristan simply.

"Go to sleep."

"Like this?" asked Tristan who was still lying on top of the footballer.

"Yeah, I like you breathin' in what I'm breathin' out and you feel good on m'piece. Dream about the mornin' when I'm goin' in real deep an' I'll make y'toes curl."

It was cheesy, but Tristan wouldn't have had it any other way and settled into a cosy position held fast in Colton's arms, with cheek touching cheek and where Colton's stilled lips might yet be brushed with just the merest effort on Tristan's part and which was hardly gay at all.

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.