I'll never forget his face. Standing there in the crowd---he was all I could see---mask off, a questioning look---"What are you gonna do now, boy?" he said with his eyes. 

Five minutes earlier, in the back-room, his look had spoken to me in a different voice. "Here I am, fucking a trick like I always do---forever the same, unchanging. Join me---or don't." I had left him there, stunned that on the night of my artistic triumph he could still only think of his need to dominate and display his prowess. It was MY night---and Michael's. I felt set-up and used---and rejected too. We could have celebrated afterwards at the loft, but he had to get-off here---with an audience. I bolted.  

I left with Ethan, not knowing what else to do. He loved me in a way Brian never could. He made me feel wanted... important... desirable. Not that Brian didn't make me feel wanted and important and desirable... sometimes... but it was always within the confines of the mentor-protege relationship... or in the drunken throes of sexual passion. Brian's love was like a thunderstorm---threatening, demanding, tempestuous, hit-or-miss, potentially dangerous, ---cold stinging rain, then fading into the dripping quietness of the aftermath. Ethan's love was like a river---warm, continuous, flowing, engulfing, buoyant, eroding, and eternal. The thunderstorm does not know its purpose and direction; the river does. 

"Let's get outta here," he said above the din of the music. 

I pushed the door and it banged against the brick wall, almost breaking the glass. Ethan could tell I was hurt and angry. 

"What happened in there?" he asked. 

"I just got my face rubbed in it," I replied. "One fucking time too many." 

"Brian?" he said with a glint in his eye. "Mr. Smooth-talker---Mr. Fuck-anything-that-moves?" 

"I just blew up," I admitted. "I didn't know where I was going. I was just getting-the-fuck outta there---and then I saw your face in the crowd... Thank God you showed up... like someone came to save me." He reached for my hand and pried my fingers from where they were knotted in my hair. With his other hand he brushed my cheek. 

He smiled again, broader now. "Well, thank God I didn't have to stay. That music was destroying my eardrums." 

"If you can play a violin two inches from your ear---" I began, but then decided it wasn't worth raising this issue as we walked to the bus stop. We stood quietly. I could always tell when he was immersed in his music. He whistled a complicated tune under his breath and his fingers twitched ever-so-slightly. His muscle-memory was at-work, playing some complicated piece. He caught me watching his hands. 

"Paganini's Perpetual Motion," he volunteered. "I've been working on it so much, I could play it in my sleep." "Where are we going?" he said finally. 

"To your place, eventually," I replied. He looked surprised. "But first, we need to stop at Brian's loft to pick up my things. He smiled briefly... then he was lost in the music again as the bus approached around a corner. 

We were the only passengers. The bus driver hardly waited for us to find seats in the back before he accelerated away from the stop. He was probably headed home after this run... like a horse bolting for the barn when you turn him in that direction. We slumped into seats beside each other, hip-to-hip. I could feel his body sway as if he were standing on the Heinz Hall stage playing his heart out to an adoring audience. It was "Perpetual Motion" all right---and he was heavily into it. 

The bus dropped us a few blocks from the loft, and we walked the empty streets in silence. The imaginary music had apparently stopped when the bus came to a halt. 

I used my key to open the front door. We climbed the brightly lit stairs to the loft. The security code was automatic now. I paused to wonder if I would ever forget it---666-BEAST--- apparently parochial school humor. 

The space seemed foreign to me already. I knew I didn't belong here. And the presence of Ethan made it that much more uncomfortable. 

"Cool place," he muttered--- "Good reverb from the high ceiling. I'd love to practice here. He must be pretty rich, huh?" 

"He does well," I said, noncommittally. 

I gathered my things quickly. The last thing we needed was a confrontation with Brian here in his territory. I dumped things into a pillowcase---threw a pile of clothes onto the chaise-lounge... and collected my art supplies. 

Ethan, who had been examining the CD collection (noticing his own and removing it for examination) suddenly realized that I was making a large pile. "Damn---you need THAT much stuff for an overnight?" 

"No," I said, hesitating. "I'm planning to move out. If it's an inconvenience or anything I can move on somewhere else tomorrow---but I'm not coming back here." 

Ethan slowly began to realize the finality of what had happened. "Baby, you're welcome to stay... it's humble quarters---not very big---you know...but if it will get you away from Pappa Bear, you're welcome to stay with me. We'll work something out." He realized that what he had wished for had suddenly come true---with little effort from him. He was just in the right place at the right time. "But how are we gonna get all this stuff to my place?" 

"We can take a cab," I replied. "I have enough money---just enough---for cab fare." He tucked the CD into his jacket pocket. It was, after all, mine. 

All my belongings---in a single bag and a pile over my arm. I left with as little as I had arrived. But the memories filled my heart to overflowing. So many memories hiding in the darkness; I tried not to remember. 

I threw the pillowcase over my shoulder, gave the place a quick survey for anything I'd forgotten, dropped the key on the desk next to the computer, and left the loft for the last time---carefully remembering to set the security system. 

We carried everything back to a busy intersection and tried to flag-down a cab, which is hard to do at 11:30pm. But eventually we got back to Ethan's room. He had apparently left in a hurry, and he hadn't been expecting company, so the place was in a jumble. It was amazing how someone who had so little could make such a mess. I dropped my stuff in the corner and sank onto the mattress on the floor. 

He reached for the violin as if he hadn't held it all day. And after a quick tune-up, the instrument began to pour-forth a rapid jumble of notes---faster and faster. He swayed under the physical strain as if he were supporting a huge weight; his jaw was rigid and his eyebrows glowered at each perceived, slight imperfection. He finished with a flourish and stood stone-still as the notes died away. 

"I had to prove to myself that I hadn't lost what I'd worked so hard on this afternoon," he explained. Then he smiled at the obvious reference to "hard-on." "And to welcome you as my new, live-in lover, let me play what I promised you weeks ago---'Valses nobles and sentimentales'---the sentimental, romantic ones at least." He put the violin down for a moment, lit the candle, and turned off the overhead light. Then he picked up the violin again and stepped up onto the mattress to straddle my outstretched legs. He paused for a moment with the bow on the strings as if waiting for a noisy audience to quiet itself---and then he began to play a desperately romantic melody. It flooded the room and stroked my body like a thousand wet tongues. I sat up, supporting my upper body with straight arms watching him swaying above me. And then I began to undress slowly; he was asking me to do it, with the music. He was lost in the music, eyes closed most of the time, until he finally looked down and saw me looking up at him. Naked and inviting. He continued to play, but now the melody took on a new urgency---a new sensuality. He was saying, with his bow, what was in his heart. He had said the words before---the words that Brian could never say---but his music was an even more powerful voice---wordless longing---soaring urgency. I reached up and unbuckled his belt. He was hard already, from the music. I opened his jeans and slid them part-way down his hips as I raised to meet his swaying cock-tip with my lips. He was sweating now---feverishly shifting to a faster tempo---begging me, with music, to crescendo with him. I swallowed him as he lunged forward at the peak of an arpeggio; he shot his load deep into my throat. (I will never hear this piece again without tasting him in my memory.) Frozen; he trembled, unable to finish. His arms relaxed and the bow and violin hung at his sides. In the flickering candlelight I could see that he was crying. He pulled away and placed the violin carefully in its case. Then he hurried back to the bed, stripping off his clothing as he came, and he dove beside me to kiss me frantically---needfully. As the kisses subsided, he rolled me onto my side against him with my head on his chest. 

"I have dreamed of this moment since the first time I saw you at that recital," he spoke quietly. "I had almost given up. Our lovemaking had almost become excruciating, knowing that, at any moment, your face would darken with responsibility, and you would get dressed and leave me to return to him. The smell of you in my bed nearly drove me mad. I couldn't have lasted much longer. Sharing you with someone who didn't treasure you was harder than doing without you completely." 

I tried to speak, but he pressed his fingers softly over my lips. 

"I need to tell you," He said. "I need YOU. I need someone in my life who raises the passion necessary for me to wring the last bit of emotion from my gut as I play beautiful music. Loving inspires greatness in me. When I'm not in-love, it just isn't there. You can't fake the passion. And BEING loved is the greatest driving-force. I could do anything for you. I WILL do anything for you." He paused. And it's not all about ME, although my talent is a gift from somewhere that I must repay. But you are part of that gift too." (He began speaking faster as the pitch rose.) "The ability without the passion is a tragedy. And you have an entirely different ability and an entirely different passion. I can see it in your drawings---the sensuality, the longing, the beauty. We experience beauty in different ways---and when we experience it, we express it in different ways. Some people need to be surrounded by beauty, but for us beauty is an ecstasy. For you, it isn't an image you look for; for me it isn't a melody to hear. Beauty is an image you see through closed eyes and a song I hear through stopped ears. Beauty is our life---and in that way we can share it." 

We lay silently together. No one had even spoken to me that way before. The words burned in my memory like images burned into my retinas after fireworks. I felt his breathing slow; my head rocked slowly on his chest as I heard the slow rhythm of his heart. He finally moved, stroking my hair with his fingers. "Now you can talk," he said softly. 

"Why did you come tonight?" I asked. "You acted like you couldn't care less about my comic book debut and then you appeared out of nowhere." 

"I haven't read a comic book since I was six---at a friend's house. My parents wouldn't allow them. The only reason I showed-up was the message on my cell phone---a digital one... from you, I thought. It was from an unidentified number but it said, ‘Meet me at Babylon as soon as you can.' I came as soon as I got home and found the message." 

"I didn't send a message. I wonder who?---" My voice trailed off as I thought about the possibilities. The possibility...

"I'm just glad I could be there when you needed me---just Fate, I guess--or God." 

I had seen the face of God---and I wondered if that was the god to whom he was referring. What would I have done if Ethan hadn't appeared? Would I have bolted anyway? Would I have left Brian? Rather than facing the answer to that question, I raised up to kiss him again. His hand slid down my side, then dove between us to find my cock. He knew I wasn't going anywhere that night. 

I awoke the next morning in my new surroundings---the dark comfort of Brian's big bed was in stark contrast to the sun shining in my eyes. Ethan had no curtains or window shades and we had slept late on a Sunday morning. I rolled over with a pillow over my face. Ethan was apparently accustomed to occupying the whole bed, a standard double mattress, because he was sprawled in the middle leaving little room for me. The room looked larger from a vantage point at floor-level. 

The reality of what had happened the night before began to sink-in. I would need a new job and perhaps even a new place to live if I couldn't stay here. I didn't want to face the questions from Debbie and the BK Fan Club if I went back to work at the diner. I'd need to tell my Mom how to contact me. I should change my address at school so my mail wouldn't go to Brian's place. I could get-by charging things on the credit card Brian had helped me get, but I'd need to change my address there, too, so he wouldn't be tempted to pay my bills. I kept ticking-off things on the list that needed to be done. 

"Hey, good morning!" Ethan's rough morning-voice surprised me. "I've waited weeks to wake-up beside you... but, fuck---I had promised you we'd watch the sun rise together and it's already (squinting at his watch) eleven o'clock. Damn!" His arm flopped over my shoulder like a dead weight. "I'd always dreamed about you spending the entire night---but last night exceeded my wildest dreams. Did we sleep at all?" 

"Off-and on," I smiled. "Off the mattress, on the floor, off the walls and ceiling, on my back---turning ON---and getting OFF. We were amazing." 

"I don't remember much of it," he said. "Sex with you is like a drug---it just takes over my whole consciousness. I wish I could remember." He smiled, showing that he remembered quite a bit. 

"So, what do we do on this first day of being together?" I teased, nose-to-nose with him now. "How shall we celebrate?" 

His face darkened almost imperceptibly, but it was clear something was troubling him. "Well, I have this thing I have to do today. Nothing very special, but an obligation." 

"Oh, don't let me interfere with your plans," I said. "You couldn't have known---" 

"It's not someone else, Babe. Well, yes, it is someone else, but it's not what you think. I'll tell you about her." 

"Her?" I questioned. I rolled onto my back ready for an explanation. 

"I've told you I'm estranged from my parents---not so much because of my sexuality, but because of my music. So, even though they could afford to pay my tuition, they've pretty much disinherited me because I didn't follow their wishes. Can you imagine me as a lawyer??? Jeez!" He paused to let the image of his tousled hair and bedraggled appearance in front of a jury sink-in. "I had no interest in becoming my father's partner." 

"So, who is this woman?" I prompted. 

"My 'patroness'... that's what I call her... my benefactress," he continued. "She's a friend of my mother who gives me some money on-the-sly because of my talent." He paused to smile at his own egotism. "She's a widow with a comfortable life-style---and she supports young artists who need assistance---money, introductions, exposure at her parties... and all basically out of the goodness of her heart. She only asks that I play for her the second and fourth Sundays of the month---and her home. So that's where I need to go today---in about three hours---so I need to warm-up and practice." 

"Does she know you're---" 

"Gay?" he interrupted. "It's never come up in conversation, although several of her other proteges are... at least, I think they are. We occasionally meet at her parties. And she doesn't ask for any sexual favors, if that's what you're thinking. She's fifty years old, for Christ's sake. Don't be rude." 

I laughed. He had read my mind. I rolled over on top of him and poked him in the ribs. "I thought maybe you were her cute little boy-toy who aroused her passions with music before you stroked her with something other than your bow." 

"Eeeewwwwww," he feigned disgust as he wrapped his arms tightly around me and rolled so he was on top. "She might like a 'twinkie-toes' like you---but all she gets from me is music---and damned good music, I might add." He released me and began to crawl out of bed, brushing my thigh with his semi-rigid cock as he crawled over me. "I thought I'd try to give her an orgasm with 'Perpetual Motion' this afternoon." He gave me that sexy, raised-eyebrow smile that let me know I was about to be his test-subject. I gathered the pillows behind my back, raised-up so I could watch his performance. 

He slipped into his levis. "I don't want anything distracting you from the music," he teased as he zipped the fly. With a flourish, he slipped the violin under his chin, turned to give me the three-quarter profile view, paused as if to let the applause die down, and then he slowly lifted the bow to the instrument. 

He practiced for almost an hour, working up a sweat as he labored over the difficult piece...over and over again. Although I mostly listened to rock and hip-hop, I knew something about classical music; a prep-school music appreciation class had made me a discerning listener. And my mother had always played soothing classical music at home. But Ethan's music was bold, powerful, and demanding. It was almost as exhausting to listen to as it was to perform. I felt my heart racing as I watched his muscles flex with the effort. 

He glowered at me after the final cadenza, as if he expected some kind of praise or criticism. But then his face lightened. "Let's shower together---it'll save time," he said, putting the violin in the case and covering it with a soft cloth. 

"That's the weakest excuse for shower-sex I've ever heard," I joked. 

"I can't have sex for three hours before a performance, Luv. It lessens my abilities." His facial expression showed that he actually meant it. You'd think he was some kind of jock-athlete or something---with a sexually-repressive coach and a curfew! 

We dressed silently after the shower. I had never seen him wearing anything but t-shirts and levis and sweats---except for that recital...but now he was dressed in a suit, looking slightly uncomfortable--- dress-shoes instead of those dirty, white running shoes. His hair was combed, almost, and he looked like he was going to choke when he tied the necktie around his neck. 

"She bought the clothes for me," he replied to my inquisitive look. "...for me to wear when I come for tea---and to play. You look great." I had dug my school blazer out of the pile of stuff I had dumped in the corner. And with a short hang-up in the steamy bathroom, the coat and gray slacks looked passable. I couldn't find matching socks, but they were close. I slicked my hair to the side in an attempt to look presentable, then off we went---to Tea. 

The front door buzzer broke the silence of our final preparations with three short blasts. "That's the car," said Ethan. "Like clockwork... always prompt." He lifted the violin case as if it were an infant and waited for me to open the door for him. I wondered what he had done before I moved-in. 

The Black Rolls-Royce Park Ward was at the curb with a driver stationed at the back door waiting to open it. "Quentin, this is my friend Justin. I'm bringing him as my guest today," said Ethan in a friendly manner. Quentin nodded, smiled, and opened the door. We hopped into the soft, tan, leather backseat and he closed the door with that recognizable sound of precision craftsmanship and solid construction. The car, looking anachronistic on this run-down side-street, accelerated quietly, escaping to more high-tone main streets and eventually to the northeast out of the city. 

"Where are we going?" I caught myself whispering as if I were in church. 

"She lives in Highland Park," he explained- "near the old Mellon Estate, where it sits overlooking the River." 

"Wow! Ritzy neighborhood," I whispered. "She must be loaded." 

"Not really," countered Ethan. "She has an interesting history, though. She and her new husband immigrated from Liverpool when they were 18. He was a struggling artist; she was poorly educated. Somehow they found their way to Pittsburgh where they both got jobs... he as a gardener and she as a maid... in the home of one of the daughters of Andrew Mellon."  

(Everyone from Pittsburgh knew the Mellon family... Carnegie-Mellon, the National Gallery in DC, the Mellon Center where the Penguins play.) "Pamela and Earnest worked for the Ostrachts for 30 years, eventually working their way up to be Chief Butler and Housekeeper in one of the big houses on the estate. When Pamela's husband developed cancer and couldn't work any more, the Ostrachts built them a house on the edge of the estate. He died a few years later, and Pamela supervised the house for Mrs. Ostracht until she died at age 90 in 1998. Pamela was left quite a sizable endowment in the will---but she and Ernest had accumulated quite a comfortable nest-egg over the 30 years; they had no kids and saved and invested every penny, so the inheritance was like frosting on the cake. Pamela decided that she could live in comfort and still share the bounty with young artists... thus the patronage for guys like me. You'll love her. She's a saint." Quentin, overhearing this from the front seat, nodded almost imperceptibly in agreement. 

"So what happens?" I asked, trying to anticipate the afternoon. "What will you play?" 

"It's the same every time---and apparently it's the same for each of the 6 or 7 proteges she maintains. First there's a walk in the garden, or in the conservatory if it's wintertime. Then there's tea and cucumber sandwiches. But she knows I don't like cucumber sandwiches---they make me burp while I play, so she always has scones with marmalade for me. And we sit and talk. Sometimes there are a few guests. And then I play a few things. Finally, Quentin drives me home. It's mostly just to keep me working on new stuff, I think---and because she loves music performed in an intimate setting. I've got a few things prepared---one with you in-mind, actually, although I didn't know you'd be here to hear it---and I'll finish with the "Perpetual Motion"---blow her away with the finale." He smiled, anticipating the triumph. His fingers move over the neck of the violin case as if he were playing what was inside. 

"Tell me about this violin," I asked after a moment of silence. "It's not the one you play on the street corner, but you used it to practice this morning. Is it new?" 

"No", he said... "far from it. It's an 1864 Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume, made during his Golden Period. She bought it for me. Well, actually, it technically still belongs to her---but I can buy it from her in the future for what she paid for it, when I can afford it. Until then, it's mine to play. $130,000---and the bow is $40,000." He paused to let the enormity of it sink in. "Maybe she'll die and I'll get a bargain."

"No wonder you play the other one in Mellon Square Park," I countered. 

"Yea---that one's from my parents---the only thing I took when I left---worth only a few grand. It sounds like a bagpipe compared to this baby." (Patting the case lovingly.) 

The car was slowing now. We had arrived. It was not the biggest house in the neighborhood, but it was still very nice---set back from the road behind a gate with a walled, expansive yard. The gate opened automatically as we approached. 

She met us at the door. The formality of the surroundings belied the informality of her welcome. She gave Ethan a hug and shook my hand as Ethan made the introductions. 

"Pamela, this is my good friend Justin Taylor. And Justin, this is Pamela Cunningham, the woman I've told you so much about. Her face brightened, knowing she'd been talked-about. 

"Come in," she said, tossing her head. "You're right on-time, as usual. Quentin always manages to circumvent the Sunday drivers. Come---this way, Justin." 

She was dressed in a soft blue, floor-length dress---classy, but casual---and she carried a broad-brimmed hat that matched the dress. Her perfectly-coiffed hair was almost white, although her face looked too young for her age---mid-to-late-50s, I guessed, after doing the math in the car. No jewelry, no exaggerated make-up... and no pretense. 

I followed them through the large, two-story entry hall, more like a central courtyard, with a shiny grand piano in the center and a curved staircase to a balcony on the second floor. And then through the dining room and out through broad French doors onto the terrace. Another young man was sitting there quietly. 

"Justin, this is Jason, another of Pamela's 'off-spring's'. He's a pianist and he'll accompany me, when necessary, and he'll play a few pieces of his own---and I mean literally ‘of his own' because he writes them." Jason stood and shook my hand but didn't make eye contact---and I noticed throughout the rest of the afternoon that he seldom made eye contact with anyone except Mrs. C. occasionally. He was either very shy, or very near-sighted. 

We walked in the garden. Pamela, wearing her hat, identified her flowers by name and stopped to admire each perfect blossom. Ethan seemed agitated and mildly effusive---perhaps the nerves of anticipating his performance. He seemed always to be ahead of the small entourage as if he knew the tour by-heart. 

"And what do YOU do, Justin?" she said, handing me a snipped rose. 

"I'm a student... an art student," I said. "I draw... and paint a little." 

"You must be good, or Ethan wouldn't tolerate you," she said, smiling knowingly. "He's such a perfectionist." Ethan turned, having overheard the remark, and shot me an acknowledging smile. 

"He's good, all right. Someday, I'll show you some of his stuff." 

The luncheon was excellent; but Ethan barely ate a thing. I dug into the resources of my prep-school manners to use the right fork and maintain a conversation at the same time. Jason sat beside me but didn't speak, so the conversation was primarily about Ethan's music and his preparation for today. Pamela kept watching me as he spoke with an interest I couldn't fathom. Was she trying to figure out the nature of our friendship? I played it ‘straight' and tried to relax. 

After lunch there was more conversation... a little more about my art and my studies. Ethan explained that I was living with him after "being kicked-out by my former roommate." I hoped that she wouldn't ask questions, and she didn't. 

"Come. Now it's time for some music," she said, rising from her chair; we followed her into the large entry hall. Three baroque chairs had been arranged close to the piano; she sat in the center one. "Sit here by me," she continued, patting the brocade. I did. "And what are we playing today? She asked Ethan. From his pocket he pulled a hand-written list, like a short program, and handed it to her. He had placed the accompaniment sheet music on the piano when we arrived, and Jason was scanning it quickly. 

"He can sight-read anything," Ethan explained..."a phenomenal ability." Jason smiled for the first time without raising his head. His fingers curled as if preparing for an attack. And then his demeanor changed dramatically. Hands brushing the keys now, he raised his head, looked at Ethan, and gave him a nod. They paused for an ominous second as if to gather all their strength... and then began. 

Pamela handed me the hand-written program..."Scherzo" by Fritz Kreisler, "Liebesleid" by the same composer, a sonata by Frank, and finally "Perpetual Motion" by Paganini. I had never watched a recital from such a close distance before. Well, I had heard Ethan play as I lay between his feet... but that was different. The sound was totally transformed in this large hall; the energy was electric; the impact of the piano's lower notes could be felt like pelting rain; I could hear Ethan's breathing. Jason hunched over the keyboard scanning the printed music but never looking at his fingers. His hands were a blur as they flashed over the entire length of the keyboard. The experience was overwhelming. I felt pride for Ethan... but I also felt awe for his ability, something that had here-to-fore escaped me in the weeks I had known him. I had admired his beauty more than his music at that first recital. The young, lithe man who had lain next to me last night was now an incredible genius. I barely recognized him. 

He didn't look at me during the entire first piece, but he fired a glance my way at its conclusion that nearly blasted me off my chair. I had such an urge to applaud... he must have seen it in my face... but as the last notes echoed into the dining room, there were only quiet murmurs of approval. Applause was appropriate for an audience... and we were not an audience. 

During the second piece, "Liebesleid," Ethan never took his eyes off me; his head was lowered, but he looked upward at me from under his dark lashes. His music spoke to me even if I had not been able to see his look. There was love with a hint of passion in it; while there were no words, it spoke volumes. His body moved as if he were trying to seduce me. I looked quickly at Pamela to see if she noticed the wordless communication... and she was watching me. I probably blushed, because she smiled and turned away. 

When the music came to an end and a few seconds of reverberation and silence followed, I gave-in to the uncontrollable urge to say "That was beautiful." 

"It was inspired," Pamela said. "Your playing is always technically perfect, but I've never heard such passion as I just did. It was breath-taking." 

"Kreisler's sweet, personalized approach to composing hasn't earned him many accolades compared to his more flashy contemporaries... but I thought you might like it," replied Ethan, returning to his usual erudition and breaking the spell. 

The remainder of the program continued without a hitch. The Paganini sounded even better than last night. And Jason concluded the program with two solo-pieces... the first, a Chopin Etude, Opus 10, Number 1... and the second, his own unnamed composition... a tempestuous thing that appeared to be a combat between man and instrument. The shy musician transformed into a raving lunatic! And then, just as suddenly, reverting back into his shell as his playing was praised by all of us. 

As we bid our farewells, Pamela squeezed my hand and urged me to return. "You seem to have inspired him," she murmured. Ethan responded with a split-second glare... as if his earlier performances had been somehow criticized. 

He was silent in the backseat for much of the trip back to the apartment, closing his eyes and leaned back into the soft leather as if he were in a trance. I learned later that it was his way of "coming-down" from a performance... a total turn-off from his surroundings. But eventually he reached for my hand and held it. "Senor Cardenes says I have the makings of the next in the great line of virtuosi," he said quietly. "...Sarasate, Wieniawski, Heifetz, Oistrakh, Milstein, Henryk Szeryng, the greatest bow-arm in history... I'm next." He paused, then smiled. "Until I met you, my goal in life was to suck-off Joshua Bell. Now he'll have to share me." He smiled again, envisioning himself kneeling between our two swaying cocks, not knowing which to lick next. "Thank you," he said, "for being my inspiration. Pamela was right. I played my heart out... for you, Baby." He leaned over to kiss me, and I caught Quentin watching us in the rear-view mirror. Then Ethan returned to his frozen trance for the remainder of the trip. 

"I need you," he said as we entered the apartment. We undressed quickly, never breaking eye contact until he jerked me into a seated position on the edge of the mattress and dove between my thighs to suck me. Sex with Ethan had a certain repetitive quality... he sucked me, then sat astride my chest while he fed his cock to me... and then we 69-ed, finishing each other by-hand. 

My mind wandered to the variety of positions and techniques Brian used... a never ending novelty... a Master of stimulation and arousal. Was it wrong to think of Brian while I was having sex with Ethan? I tried to focus my attention on the here-and-now... but my thoughts always wandered to whom Brian was with and what he was doing. I lay back and let Ethan wash over me like the music...

The pain and panic of penetration were over. I had wondered, at that last moment, whether I could take his size, or would he rip me open? I had cried-out, I think, as he forced it past my sphincter; he knew, ...once he'd opened me up, I could take it. 

My knees, almost touching my shoulders now... bent double... the backs of my thighs against his chest as he forced deeper into me. He was a dark shadow over me, blocking my view of anything else. I felt his measured urgency... the fullness... my conflicting urges to contract my ass-muscles to expel him or to relax and take him deeper... the friction of his shaft against the soft inner lining of my rectum. And when he had forced most of his flesh-column into me, he began the withdrawal and re-entry... slowly, at first... then more demanding, more overpowering, as if his focus had shifted from my pain to his pleasure. His pelvis slapped against my ass; I could hear the impact and I could feel the pressure-waves of his force transmitted through the entire core of my body, straightening the folds of my interior with his length and thickness. He pressed down with all his weight, trying to go deeper and deeper with each thrust. My pelvis rocked with each invasion, trying to adjust the angle for maximum entry. 

The friction of his thick-veined cock burned my entry and focused my whole attention at the pleasure-point. I was bent even further, with my knees on either side of my head, ass in-the-air as he fucked downward into me... the feeling of being dominated and possessed... overwhelmed. I tucked my feet to the side and spread my knees as wide as they would go to give him better access. His hot breath fluffed my hair with each thrust. Sweat spattered from his chin onto my face, blinding me for a moment; I closed my eyes and let him fuck me into oblivion. 

Supporting himself on only one elbow now, he forced his other hand between my thighs and my chest... my cock was in his tight grasp... spreading my pre-cum over my throat before he brought the tip to my own lips. He jacked me in-rhythm with his pounding thrusts... all the sensations rolled into one... pain-pleasure. I felt my cock-tip slip between my own lips... and I tasted my familiar taste. Unable to breathe... I gasped to murmur my approval... "Fuck me," I cried. "Ooooohhhh, FUCK ME!" I didn't think he could fuck me harder, but he did. 

"Give it up. Give it to me," the voice whispered in my ear. "And milk me with your hot ass." 

His voice was like a jolt of electricity applied to my prostate. When I could prolong it no longer, my body uncoiled with the force of my cum-shot... forcing him upward as the hot liquid hit my face. His back and shoulders arched backwards as he shoved his cock into me one last time. 

"Justin!" He called my name. 

His chest, bathed in sweat, reflected the blue light now... 

"Justin!" 

I felt his hot load surging as his cock throbbed deep inside me... pulsating with each expulsion... 

"Justin! Wake up! You're dreaming!" 

A hand on my chest, shaking me. I opened my eyes to the dim morning light. 

"First you drove your knee into my ass, and then, when I rolled over, you nearly broke my jaw. You were fighting him, I think." Ethan's face was inches from mine, trying to make my focus my eyes on his face. 

"You were thrashing like a wildcat. Was that big-bad-man trying to take you away from me? You were calling his name." 

"It was only a dream," I said, trying to hide my disappointment. "It seemed so real." I must have been flailing around; the sheet was wrapped twice around my legs. Unwrapping myself like a mummy, I stretched out on the mattress trying to get my breath. Then I realized that my cock was semi-hard, so I pulled the sheet over my legs and up to my waist. Ethan hadn't noticed. 

"Did I say anything else?" I asked. 

"You were shouting something, but I couldn't understand it. 'Save me, save me' maybe." I tried not to smile. 

I could feel the dampness of my sweat on the sheet beneath me. I remembered that coolness... after sex... as we lay side-by-side with fingers entwined, the smell of his skin still on my body. He often smoked a cigarette. I watched his chest expand and contract as he inhaled deeply and expelled the smoke in a thin column toward the ceiling. He was so gorgeous... the flush of arousal still on his skin, the thickness of his cock still lying across his belly. He always squeezed my fingers as a gentle farewell as he left the bed to clean-up. His fingers tousled my hair as he teased me... "Get ready to go again." Then he... 

"I need to practice most of today," Ethan continued. "You can hang around and listen... if you want... but it's pretty boring. Learning new stuff is always boring... over-and-over again. And I also wanna learn Bell's cadenza from Mendelssohn; I bought the CD; it's not in-print yet. But I can figure it out by trial-and-error." He started humming softly... then more loudly. "You want something for breakfast? There's not much." 

"I think I'm going out," I said. I realized I didn't have any money. 

"Suit yourself. I starve for my art," he replied dramatically with a sweeping gesture. 

I slid off the mattress and stood. "Maybe we need to clean this place," I said, brushing the dirt from my hip where it had stuck to my moist skin. 

"Yea, well... it's just temporary until I can afford a better place... until WE can afford a better place." He caught himself. 

I pulled my Levis out of the pile and tried to find a clean shirt. Then I sat on the edge of the bed again to put on the Nikes that Brian had bought for me. Ethan twisted his fingers in my hair... a sign he was thinking of a repeat 69-performance... but I pulled away. "I'm hungry," I said, heading for the door. 

"Whatever," he replied as he rolled over, turning his back to the door. 

=====

I wandered aimlessly, but my hunger subconsciously led me to the diner. I had missed my shift this morning; Debbie would be pissed. Instead of using the front door, I went through the alley to the back door. Pascal, the new cook, came to the door, waving me off with a large kitchen knife. 

"You stay way," he warned. "Novotny will have jour balls for meessing your shift..." At that moment, Deb's face appeared at the pick-up window. As soon as she saw me, she swung around the corner to the door, confronting me. 

"Get you apron on! Half the breakfast crowd has already been here and gone... and I've been bustin' my balls with no help. What-the-hell's the matter with you?" 

"I can't, Deb," I began. "I just can't face 'em after what happened Saturday night. And Brian might come in..." 

"No one has seen him since he left Babylon," she interrupted. "He hasn't been here." 

"Well, I can't face the rest of the gang either. Lots of people saw what happened... saw me leave with Ethan. I've moved out of the loft," I explained. 

"I figured as much, " she said. "I saw what happened... some of what happened, at least. No one else knows... although they noticed you were gone and they saw Brian acting kinda strange... well, olympic-quality tricking is not THAT unusual... but he got really drunk and had to be taken home." 

"I didn't know..." I said quietly. 

"Well, you're gonna need some way to get some money, now that Mr. Money-Bags has disappeared. We'll get-by here until you can come back. Have you had anything to eat?" 

"No," I said through the screen door. 

"Hold on," she barked as she turned and grabbed a waffle and sausages off the pick-up counter. 

"Hey, Deb! That's MY waffle!" someone shouted from the counter as she shoved it through the partially opened door. 

"Keep your panties on, Priscilla," she shouted over her shoulder. "You can wait another five minutes while you size-up your table-mate's cock under the table. Don't you guys get enough at night? You start so early in the morning." The diner erupted with laughter. 

I ate the food with my fingers, and I was licking the last of the syrup when she returned to the door with a fork. I handed her the empty plate. 

"My God! You inhaled that. Are you with Ethan?" She changed the subject without missing a beat. 

"Yes," I said... "for now, at least. But don't tell anyone." 

"Well, that's better than sleepin' in the park. I won't snitch on ya," she said. "And I don't need to know how to reach you. You know how to reach me. I just want to know that you're safe, Peaches. And you know you're welcome to move back to the Hotel Novotny whenever you want. Vic misses you." She looked away as if to hide her concern. 

"I'll be OK, Deb. Thanks for the breakfast. I can't pay you, but I will when I'm back on-my-feet." 

"You do that, Sunshine," she said with an approving nod. "Get back on your feet, I mean." She turned to rush back to the dinging pick-up bell and the grumbles of patrons. 

I spent a few hours just sitting in Mellon Park, a few blocks from the Loft. It was a place where I often came to be alone and to think. It's an active cruising-spot, however, so I tried not to make eye-contact with some of the guys who kept walking back and forth. 

Eventually I went back to Ethan's place. He was practicing; I could hear him from the street. I opened the door quietly, trying not to disturb him... but he stopped as soon as he heard the click of the latch. 

"You had a call," he said without a welcome. 

"How could I? I asked. "No one knows I'm here." 

"It was from Pamela. She wants you to call her." I detected a certain tone of annoyance in his voice. I picked up the phone and he dictated the number. A male voice answered, and I asked for Mrs. Cunningham. After explaining who I was and that I was returning her call, I waited... Ethan stood poised ready to play. As Pamela said "Hello, Justin," he began to play a soft, melodic piece. 

"Thank you for returning my call so promptly," she said. "I can hear Ethan demanding attention in the background. Tell him it sounds lovely." I stretched the phone cord and moved across the room so that I could talk quietly. "What can I do for you?" I asked. 

"Well, to begin, you can gather up some of your artwork and bring it so that I may see it," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm not solely a music lover, and I'd like to see some of your drawings. Would you let me see them?" 

"Of course," I replied. "I've had a few things shown at the..." I paused before I said "the Gay Art Center... and at school..." 

"It doesn't need to be just your show-work," she said. "Bring as much as you can carry.  Even sketches and unfinished pieces. I want to see it all. Is today too soon? I can send Quentin with the car. And we can have a late lunch..." 

"I can come today," I said, trying not to sound too eager. 

"Fine. One o'clock? I'll have Quentin at the door." 

After I hung-up the phone Ethan stopped playing. "She wants to see your work," he said. "I knew she would. You charmed the pants off her." 

"As if you haven't too?" I retorted. He resumed his practice. 

I bundled up as much of my work as I could find. I had thrown away a few lesser pieces when I left the loft. I didn't have time to examine each piece of paper I shoved into the portfolios. After forty-seven times through the same passage of music I was ready to escape when the buzzer interrupted. "Have fun," he said unconvincingly, as I opened the door. 

Quentin put the two, large, black folios in the trunk and I carried the smaller one in the back seat. I had stuffed everything I 'd drawn in the last two years into those fake-leather art carriers. I was proud to show my work to someone new. 

=====

She met me on the front porch as she had yesterday, but dressed more casually. We went directly to the conservatory where a table had been spread with a white cloth for lunch... but she wanted to see my drawings first. I wasn't sure how to show them to her; I fumbled with the black fabric ties. She stepped forward and said "Let me do this. You sit over there, and if I have any questions, I'll ask." I settled into a wing-chair, suddenly nervous that my work wasn't good enough for exhibition. She opened the folio and began thumbing through the jumble of drawings, all un-matted and of random size. I watched her face, because I couldn't see what she was examining. 

After a few quiet leaf-turns she nodded and turned one toward me... the drawing of my jacket hanging on my door. "Wonderful sensitivity to the fabric folds," she commented. She replaced it in the pile. A few more. Nods of approval. A still-life of liquor bottles draped with my underwear. She smiled. A portrait of Molly. A drawing of Brian's hand. "Incredible detail," she said. "I can feel the warmth of the skin." So could I, at that moment. 

Then she stopped and lifted the edge of one of the larger drawings. She stared at it, scanning every square inch slowly and deliberately. "Who is this?" she inquired turning the drawing toward me. 

It was Brian, sketched out one morning in the slanting light while he slept... on his back, with one arm over his head and the other resting on his belly... one leg straight, the other bent throwing his hips at a delightful angle... and his semi-turgid cock lying across his lower abs. I had left his side to surprise him with some breakfast, but as I climbed from the mattress, I looked back... and I was struck by the beauty of him lying there. His mouth sagged open invitingly and his skin glowed with the smoothness of polished marble. The dark sheet swirled seductively around his body like engulfing hands. I HAD to capture this moment. The light was perfect. I had HAD to draw him. Plans for breakfast were delayed as I scurried to get my best-quality drawing pad and pencils. I pulled-up a chair and began to draw. His only movement was the rising and falling of his chest in deep sleep. I don't know how long it took; I remember that I improved it later. And I never showed it to him. 

When the drawing was done, I put it away and hurried to the kitchen to make his favorite... hazelnut waffles with maple syrup. Instead of using the food processor to grind the hazelnuts (fearing the noise would awaken him prematurely) I crushed each nut with the flat side of a knife, then chopped them quietly. He awoke to the aroma of hot waffles and warm syrup. To show me his approval, after he had eaten, he showed me new and interesting ways to enjoy maple syrup... but that's another story. 

She raised an eyebrow and repeated, "Who IS this?" 

"His name is Brian," I answered. "I lived with him, on-and-off, for almost a year... up to last Saturday." 

"Without seeing him in-person, I can't tell which is more beautiful... his body, or your drawing of it. It is truly remarkable," she continued. "It is as if you know, and can feel, every curve and contour... The three-dimensional effect is remarkable." She glanced up at me to check my response. Perhaps I looked sad, because she put down the picture, rose, and stepped to touch me on the shoulder. 

"And you lived with him?"

"It's a long story," I said with a quivering voice. "He rescued me, in a way..." I could feel my lip tremble...and I was going to lose-it if she continued. "I'm with Ethan now," I said softly. 

"Well, you love Ethan. I could see it yesterday... in your pride for him while he played... in your loyal friendship. But there's something in this drawing... I could see it... and I can see it in your face." 

I couldn't answer. She turned back to the portfolio and resumed her examination of its contents. 

She slowly sifted the contents of all three portfolios, occasionally saying "Brian" as she held up a drawing of him. There were more than I had realized... but I HAD lived with him, after-all... a willing model... a gorgeous model. I probably should have sorted-out some of the close-up anatomical drawings. Somehow cock-and-balls doesn't seem appropriate before lunch.

Lunch was a welcome distraction. I don't remember what I ate. The world was lying heavily on me as she talked about my future. 

"Need for financial help..." 

"Fine art rather than commercial art..." 

"Europe after Pittsburgh and New York..." 

I was jolted back to the present as she continued, "So I'm offering you full financial support... a housing allowance, tuition, travel, supplies, apprenticeship with the best teacher... no strings attached, except that you show me your progress... the same arrangement as Ethan and the others. What do you think?" She stopped to sip her iced tea. 

"I'm blown-away," I said. "I never anticipated this." 

"Ethan did," she replied. "He planned it, perhaps, but he may be having second thoughts, from our short conversation earlier. It may give you too much freedom, possibly." 

"He seemed a little distant when I left," I said. 

"Well, he recognizes your talent, just as I do. What do you say, Justin... about my offer?" 

"I'm stunned," I said... "and very grateful." I was having trouble believing what I was hearing. "I accept, of course. I mean, it's like a dream-come-true. My art is the most important thing in my life." (Did I lie?) "and the chance to pursue it... even if I never excel at it..." 

"You already do that," she interrupted. 

I stood speechless, not knowing what else to say. 

"I will ask for only one thing to seal the bargain," she continued. "That first drawing of a reclining man... Brian, I believe... the one on the bed in the slanting light. It is the first and ONLY gift I will ask of you. From this point on, I will purchase some of your work at fair-market-value. But it is only fair that we trade... your drawing, which I love, for your future. Shake on it?" She offered her hand. I wanted to kiss it instead of shake it. I loved that drawing so much, however, I had never realized it's artistic value. I hated to part with it, but I was so grateful to Pamela, I had no choice but to give it to her... anything she asked. 

We said our good-byes. "Come back next week... same time," she concluded. Quentin re-packed the folios in the trunk and I entered the backseat of the Rolls. I was suddenly free. Free to pursue my art with no financial worries... free to go anywhere I wanted... free to live with whomever I chose. I went back to Ethan, a different person than the person who had left.

The drawing! Why had I given her that drawing? I couldn't get it out of my mind. I had almost forgotten it, it was done so long ago, but the quick glance I got of it as Pamela held it up brought back the moment... clear and crisp like a photograph. I missed him; I admitted it... even though I was still mad at him for driving me away with his mindless fucking. I ached for his touch. I had been with him so long, my brain hadn't quite registered that he was out of my life. I expected him to walk through the door at any minute; I heard his voice and turned to find him not there; the slightest, least-significant thing could bring the memories flooding back. And I had given away the fucking drawing! 

I tore through the portfolio. The rest of my drawings of him were there... none of them as good... none capturing his essence like that one. I closed the folio determined that I would draw another one. 

"I knew the old lady would come-up with some money if she saw your work," Ethan said as he came out of the bathroom. "She likes to think she's knowledgeable in the arts... although she doesn't know a Detach from a Sautill. (techniques of bowing a violin).  She probably knows even less about art; you'll be her first artist." 

"She may not understand the technique, but she has a good eye," I replied. A good enough eye to appreciate Brian. 

"Well, to celebrate your success at getting on the ‘dole', I'll bring some beer home from rehearsal," he said with a grin. 

I waited for Ethan to leave for his chamber music ensemble rehearsal. He would be away for 4 hours or more. The light was still good. I tried to find some Brian-Kinney-music to play, but all of Ethan's CDs were classical. I tried the radio. 

There was one remaining piece of large, high-quality paper left in my sketchbook. I spread my "tools", preparing for some intense drawing. The first light strokes to get the right proportions... the contour strokes to establish the outline... the feather-strokes to add the beginnings of light and shadow. It was...OK. Not perfect yet. I sketched faster, remembering the moments when I was afraid he'd wake up and find me there. No, the curvature goes THIS way... I saw him lying there, in my memory... the sleeping Adonis... if I could reach out and touch him. Fucking-Hell! Drawing a picture of a picture is damned hard compared to drawing a picture of his perfect body. My memory of him was still perfect... I could recall the feeling of finding his shoulder in the darkness and tracing across his broad back with my fingers, imperceptibly, while he slept. I could still sense his smooth skin on my palms as I slid my hands into the small of his back as he fucked me. I could remember the softness of that perfect skin where his upper thigh met his torso and pelvis... the concave triangle where I would rest my head as I studied his cock in-detail. But transferring those memories to paper, without him there to examine, was beyond my capabilities as an artist. I struggled. I erased. I tried another pencil. My breathing became faster and faster. Frustration mounted. In a final, desperate lunge, I drove the pencil deeply into the paper, ripping it. I gripped the stiff paper in my fists and wadded it up as my eyes filled with tears. I had lost him... himself, his picture, and the ability to re-create him in pencil-and-paper. I threw myself onto the bed, still clutching the wadded paper. 

I don't know how long I lay there... sobbing at first, then angry, then sullen, and ultimately paralyzed. I didn't want to move. I breathed deeply, trying to catch his aroma. I closed my eyes to stop the tears and to remember him. 

=====

When Ethan returned, I was still lying there, almost asleep. He turned off the radio before he spoke. "Get up," he said. "Let's go get something to eat. I made a couple of bucks on the street playing Perpetual Motion. People go for that virtuoso-crap." He noticed the drawing instruments spread on the table. I tried to hide the wadded-up paper in my fist. "Whadidja draw?" he asked, scratching his unkempt hair and stretching to get the kinks out of his bow-arm. 

"Nothing," I said. My voice sounded raspy from the crying. 

He paused a moment, waiting for me to explain. "Well, I see it there wadded-up in your hand. It's obviously SOMETHING." He knelt on the mattress and tried to pry it out of my fingers. "Don't be a prima donna," he teased. "There's only room for one of those in this apartment. The paper slipped from my fingers. He unfolded it quickly. 

"Aaahhh," he said, flattening the paper on the table. "Getting rid of old memories, I see. That's good. Out with the old, unloving boyfriend, ...in with the new, romantic, forgiving, understanding one." But he realized that I had been drawing... and that this was the outcome. He wadded it up and attempted to toss it into the overflowing wastebasket; it joined the overflowing litter on the floor. "See? All gone," he said. "And maybe there are a few more in here." He started to open the large portfolio. 

"No!" I shouted. "Leave my stuff alone. Some of those are good examples of my work, regardless of whom they're of. I need them for my..." I couldn't think of why I needed them other than the reason I was trying to hide. "...for my painting class. I can use those as ideas." 

He bought it silently. I lay there quietly as he opened two beers and thrust one into my hand. He lit the candle, turned off the harsh overhead light, and slipped onto the bed beside me. "Fuck dinner. You are so lucky to have someone who loves you so much," he said as he ran his fingers through my hair. "I am so happy to have you all to myself. You're mine, all mine." He slid his hand under my t-shirt and stroked my back. "Why don't you sit on the edge of the bed and let me SHOW you how happy you make me?" he continued as he pushed my shirt up my back. I rolled away from him; his hand, still under my shirt, rested on my belly. I sat up on my elbows, ready to speak. He touched his fingers to my lips and said, "Don't speak... just let me suck you." 

He repositioned himself and pulled down my shorts and briefs, leaving my t-shirt bunched over my chest. Kneeling between my spread legs, he lowered his head to my lower abs, kissing the soft hairs of my belly. His hand positioned my cock and stroked it to semi-hardness. I let my head sag back, eyes closed, waiting for the surrounding moistness. 

"No matter who you're with, I'll always be there," the voice said. "I'll always be your first... and you will see me in the shadows." I smiled and let Brian's mouth bring me to a sudden stiffness and an explosive eruption. 

=====

"I'm going out," I said as we lay there side-by-side. "I just need to get some air... and think." 

"Want some company?" he said in that sleepy voice he always gets after sex. 

"No,...get some sleep. I'll be OK... I just need to buy some stuff at the convenience store... stuff I left at... at the Loft." 

"OK, but I'll be waiting for you," he said, suspicious at the mention of the Loft. 

I walked to the park along the dimly lit street. It was only 9 o'clock, but, to me, it seemed like the middle of the night after my catatonic nap. I sat on the same bench I had occupied yesterday morning. The same guys were there... well, perhaps not the same ones... the shadows from the overhead halogen security light obscured down-turned faces. As before, I ignored them. 

I was suddenly angry at Brian... angry because I began to understand what he had done. He gave me no alternative but to leave. He forced me into an angry decision; I could still remember the look of pleasure on his face as he fucked that guy in the backroom... the same rapturous glow he had shown me that first night... and despite all that had happened since, he made me feel cheap, disposable, used-up. Perhaps he thought he did it for my own good... that there was no future for us... that he could never change... that I could never be, for him, what he was for me... 

"Justin?" The quiet voice surprised me. I looked up. It was Andre, the lithe, black dancer who usually occupied Cage Number One at Babylon... the best of the dancers... and a friend from my short stint as a Babylon Boy. I nodded to him, forgetting that I was partially in-shadow. He came over and sat beside me on the bench. 

"I thought it was you," he said. He grabbed my hand in that silly handshake we had invented in the dressing-room... like milking the last few dribbles out of a cock, then wiping your hand on your chest. "Are you OK? No one has seen you for a few days... after the... you know... the Rage Party. I knew you had it bad for Brian... and I saw what happened." He paused as I lifted my face into the light. "Oh, now I see," he said. "I hate the sadness on that gorgeous face of yours. Your eyes look puffy. If it makes you feel any better, Brian's not doing so well either... got in a fight with Trey at Babylon... you remember, the guy who grabbed your ass that night after the King-of-Babylon contest... and Sap kicked Brian out, permanently. It wasn't pretty." 

"Is he OK?" I felt suddenly concerned. He put his hand on my shoulder. 

"Oh, I thought you were mad at him. But I see you're not, Princess." 

"I miss him," I said quietly. I turned to look deeply into his eyes. 

"No one has seen him," he said, patting my shoulder. "Maybe that's a GOOD sign." 

We sat quietly for a moment... his arm sliding around my shoulder as support as I sagged forward. 

"Are you working? He said, breaking the silence. 

"Not for the last few days. I've missed my shifts at the diner." 

"I didn't mean THAT. I meant... here... right now." 

I looked up, probably with a question on my face. 

"I need to make a few bucks to pay my rent this week... I came up a little short," he said, looking away. "Just came here to trick for some cash. I thought maybe... if you wanted to hook-up, we could go as a 'team'... you know, to make more money." 

Suddenly the assistance from Pamela seemed awfully important... protecting me from a hand-to-mouth existence... or worse. I patted him on the knee. "I wish I could help you... with some extra cash," I said. 

He smiled, realizing I hadn't sunken that low yet. "Well, back-to-work," he sighed as he stood. "If I see him... and if I see you again... I'll let you know. Take it easy... or any way you can get it," he chuckled as he strolled, head-up, into the shadows. 

I suddenly felt uncomfortable sitting there. I headed back to the apartment... and Ethan. 

=====

He was practicing again. It was late; no wonder the neighbors complained. I let myself in as quietly as possible. He had been drinking. There were a few more empty beer bottles around... and his technique was suffering, even to an untrained ear. My portfolios had been moved onto the bed; perhaps they had been opened while I was gone. I would check their contents in the morning. He glared at me as if I had interrupted him in a most difficult spot. 

"I'm going to bed," I said. He nodded, mumbled something, and resumed his playing. I wished I could cover my head with the pillow, but that certainly would have been taken as an insult. I closed my mind and let the repetitiveness of the music serve as a sedative. 

Where was he? What was he doing? Was he safe? Did he miss me?

The next night I walked again, although it was drizzling and threatening worse. I thought about going to the Diner, but the Gang would be there, or maybe even Brian, and I didn't look forward to the awkwardness and the questions... and the sympathy. God, I hated feeling like I was in bereavement; it was just a fucking friendship gone wrong, not a tragedy. So why did I still have that lump in the pit of my stomach? Why did I wake up reaching to touch his pillow? Why did I smell his skin, his hair, his musk, his Jim-Beam-breath? I ached for his firm touch, his strong hand moving me into position, his rigidity entering me, his essence filling me. He was like a drug that gripped me in some kind of addiction. I wasn't addicted to fucking, I was addicted to HIM. 

I walked the dark streets, skirting the pools of light from the overhead streetlights, feeling somehow comforted in the dark. The light showed only one shadow. The wet pavement reflected back his absence.

The Loft was dark. I stood in the shadows looking up at windows I had peered from while naked after the flush of overwhelming rapture. How small those windows looked when you were looking in from the outside. Was he out? Was he away? Or was this the time the blue lights were shut-off, when the ropes and cuffs emerged, or when the bodies lay heaving together, trying to catch their breath. Or the other times. He loved to look at me under the blue lights, but it was in darkness that he fucked me the hardest, when he awoke sweating, recalling a dream, and reached for me like any anonymous trick... and fucked me with the violence that meant something only to him. If only I could have seen his face at those moments; perhaps I could have understood him better. When I asked the next morning, he seemed oblivious or evasive. His need was met there in the darkness, but how or why was a mystery.

The rain came down harder now and I ducked into the recessed doorway that smelled slightly of urine and spilled beer. I had looked down on this scene before, the figure huddled in the shadows, the look of abandonment and hopelessness. But I kept telling myself that my future was brighter than ever. Pamela's endowment, my schooling paid-for, money for travel and even for study abroad. How could I feel so down when things were looking up. And then I realized that I was only half there; my other half was ripped away somewhere. The fire to succeed and to earn his pride, the purpose for living, the focus of my being... gone in a few seconds of anger and betrayal. I rested my chin between my knees and sobbed... the big, heavy tears reserved for the private times. I gulped the urine smell to expel it in one loud moan. How could I have been so stupid to let this happen. I had always been able to read his wavelength. I was the "adult" in this relationship... this former relationship. I had set the rules and then broken every one of them. I had driven him to the point that he felt it necessary to let me go rather than hurt me even more. It was so clear now. And so utterly irreversible. I looked up as the wind blew a sheet of rain across my face, mixing the dirty Pittsburgh rain with my salty tears. My vision blurred. Was there a light on the top floor? No, it was just the reflection of the distant skyscrapers on rain-streaked windows and tear-streaked eyes. He was gone. And I was sorry.

The wind changed direction and the rain began accumulating on the cement slab where I sat, wetting the seat of my pants. "Time to go," I thought. I wouldn't know what to do, even if I saw him. I arose and stepped into the driving rain. I was soaked before I had walked half-a-block, so I simply continued as the water ran down into my shoes. 

=====

When I got back to Ethan's place, it was clear that the beer had won the battle. He was sleeping face-down on the pillow. I stripped off my wet clothing and climbed into what remained of my side of the bed. As I pulled the covers to try to warm myself, he felt them slip slightly toward me; he gripped the blankets and rolled, pulling even more of the blankets to his side and leaving me with practically nothing. I retrieved another blanket from the closet and covered myself enough to sleep. No touching, no murmured words, no welcome. I was still a visitor in his bed.

=====

The next morning, the car arrived to take me to Pamela's house again. Ethan wasn't invited for lunch; she wanted to discuss my training and travel. We sat at the glass-topped table in the Conservatory. It was time to raise the issue that had bothered me all week.

"Before we start, there's something I need to say, and I'm sorry to say it. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to return the drawing I left with you last week," I began. 

"Oh, really? I liked it very much. In fact, I had it framed. I get immediate service at the framing shop. The man who does my framing thought it was wonderful."

"Oh?" I said hesitatingly. "It's just that... well, ...that drawing has some special significance for me... it's one of my favorites, but I had promised it to someone else..." I was stammering, looking for an excuse to lie. "Well, actually that's not true... I can't lie to you," I said. "Not after what you've done for me. The truth is..."

She interrupted me before I could finish. "You've passed the test, you know? I could tell it was important to you, just from the look on your face when I pulled it from your portfolio. And that's why I asked for it... to see how far you would go to get my support... both financial and emotional." She reached across the table and put her hand atop mine.

"At that moment, I would have given you anything," I replied. "It was an intense experience just coming here with Ethan... and when you expressed an interest in my work, I was blown-away. But,... how was it a test?"

"Some people say that I know little about art and artists," she said, settling back into her chair and intertwining her fingers in her lap.  "...that I'm just a rich old lady who likes the company of talented young people. And I can't deny that. It's true. But I do know something about the importance of art and the creative process, and I think I can recognize ‘quality' when I see it. I haven't been wrong, yet."

I felt a lecture coming on, so I sipped my iced tea and listened carefully.

"Some artists love the attention and the monetary rewards their talents bring them. Applause, fame, notoriety, and wealth are the goals. They can turn-out pop music or cutsey trinkets, or they can play the same piece in a hundred different concert halls like a recorded CD. They have the technique, but not the soul for art. Perhaps Ethan fits into this category. I'm not sure."

Pamela obviously understood Ethan better than Ethan understood Pamela. That was clear already.

"The second type of artist attempts to bring pleasure to others. They get their rewards from a subtle smile on the face of a solitary person standing before their work in a gallery, or a nod from an audience member, or even a perceived inner glow irradiating from an entire concert hall audience. They may be poor and unknown, but they have an inner satisfaction." She paused to let the message sink-in.

"The third type strives for beauty, the rhythm, form, and balance we all perceive in different ways. It's a hard struggle, because what might be perceived as beautiful by one person or one group may be considered trash by another. Beauty is a hard master. There is no ultimate judge. People see, in Beauty, what they look for... their needs unsatisfied. But Beauty is not a need but an ecstasy. Beauty is an image you see through closed eyes and a song you hear through stopped ears. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in the mirror.

She paused and reached for a box under her chair. Slowly, almost reverently, she opened it and slid out the contents. It was the drawing of Brian in a simple, thin, silver frame with a blue-gray mat surrounding my drawing. She laid it on the table between us.

"And then, she said, "there is the artist beyond the Art... art used to express worship, adoration, ...dare I say ‘love'?  Some people say it's a link to the Divine. The work says ‘I am inadequate to express what is in my maker's heart, but my artist was compelled by the sheer joy of the act.' That is what I see here." She tapped the glass of the drawing. "I saw it in your eye and in your work. I've seen it in Michaelangelo's ‘Pieta' and felt it in Mozart's ‘Requiem' but I have never held it in my hands before."  She fell silent for a moment, as if in prayer.

"You love him, don't you?" Her voice was soft and sad.

How could I explain? I could tell her who he was, what he did, how we met, what had happened... all of it inadequate to answer that simple question.

"His name is Brian." I was repeating what she already knew. "It's a long story," I said, dropping my eyes through the glass table to the stone floor of the conservatory. "We were together... for a while. He's older... in some ways. He... I... I left him to live with Ethan, but"... I could not say the words... ‘It was a big mistake'. I could feel the hot tears welling-up in my eyes and I was determined that I was NOT going to cry. "The picture is all I have of him now. And, yes... I still love him."

"I wondered about Ethan the first time I met you," she said, picking up the tempo. "He paraded you like a prize pony. I could tell there was something between you. Your sexuality matters little to me, by the way. All the creative people I know are either gay or crazy... and some are both. But you seemed like such an unlikely pair. He's self-centered and egotistical; you're mature, self-assured, and introspective. He's a show-off; you exude confidence. He looks like an unmade bed; and you look composed no matter what you wear. The contrasts are so obvious. Tell me this... when he plays the violin for you, I assume he does... does he do it to please you, or to collect your praise? I know how it feels when he plays for me; there's that moment of silence when he's through... as if he's almost waiting for applause. It makes me uncomfortable,"  She paused before asking, "Are you happy with him... now?"

"We have our problems, but he's good to me... he loves me in his own way... it's too early to say whether I'm happy." I'm still dealing with the Brian-thing."

We sat there for two hours talking about what had happened... what had gone wrong. His picture there on the table was a huge distraction. Sometimes I felt as if I were talking directly to him lying there. I poured out my heart, brimming-full, until there was no more to say.

She stood then and walked around the table to the arm-rest of the chair where I slouched in despair. She gripped me hard and pulled me upright. And as I stood, she put her arm around me, either to steady me or to comfort me. It did both.

As I prepared to leave, she slipped the drawing into its box, almost as if she was sliding an icon back into its gold sheath. She handed it to me with a determined thrust, indicating that she wanted to keep it, but that she was determined to send me home with it. Quentin was waiting with the car at the front door. We said our good-byes, but she added a kiss on my cheek as we parted. ‘Mother Number Three,' I thought to myself as I climbed into the car. "I just keep accumulating them. Deb was Number Two. I needed to talk to Deb again... soon."

"She's quite a lady, Mrs. P." Quentin said as we drove through the gate. "And she must think you're pretty special, too. I've never seen her kiss any of her wards like that... always a handshake or maybe a squeeze. And she brags about you too. ‘My artist' she calls you."

"I think she's pretty special too," I said, not willing to tell him how truly special that might be.

=====

I could hear Ethan practicing as I got out of the car. I made a mental note to suggest that he close the window so he wouldn't disturb the neighbors, even though it was 4 o'clock in the afternoon. Letting myself in quietly, I tried not to disturb him, but as soon as he heard the click of the door, he stopped mid-cadenza, and spun around to face me. "How'd it go?" he queried with one raised eyebrow. "Did she ask about me?"

"Yeah, your name came up a few times." I didn't lie. "But mostly we talked about Art."

"What did she give you?" he said, nodding toward the box under my arm. I had forgotten that I was clutching it; it would not be welcome here, so I tried to hide it unsuccessfully.

"Just one of my drawings... framed," I replied nonchalantly.

"Let's see," he said, putting down the violin and stepping forward.

"No, it's nothing important," I returned, clutching the box with both hands now.

"Now I AM curious. You've never hesitated to show me your drawings before. What-the-fuck is it?" He gripped the package by a third edge. "Give it to me."

"No. I'm asking you not to do this. Don't make something out of nothing. It's just a token gift from Pamela. She wanted to..."

He ripped it out of my hands and turned to put his body between me and the package. He flipped open the flap and withdrew the picture. 

"I've never seen this one before," he said coldly. 

"I wasn't trying to hide it. Pamela found it in my portfolio. I'd almost forgotten about it. It's the truth. She asked for it... and she framed it. That's all there is to it."

"OK," he said. "Look at it."  He held it up in full view for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn't keep my eyes from tracing the curves of his body in the morning light. "I knew it! I can tell by the pitiful look on your face... you still love that bastard. You can't even stand to look at him without wanting him back. It is SO obvious!" He gripped the frame in both hands and brought it down sharply over his knee, glass-side-up. The frame splintered and the glass shattered all over the floor. His feet were bare, and he realized he could not move. "It has no place here. Destroy it!" he ordered. He thrust the jumble of wood, mat-board, paper, and glass toward me; I tore it from his hands, careful not to cut myself.

"No," I shouted. "You already have... with your insane jealousy." I slipped the drawing from the bent mat and rolled it quickly. "I'm going out." I wheeled around and left, leaving the door open. He didn't follow.

When I got to the sidewalk, I heard his voice from the window three stories above. "And don't bother to come back!" he shouted. A few windows opened in adjacent houses, and I saw a few curtains being pulled back. "Just a lovers' spat," they'd say, but it was clear to me. This was the end.

With only the clothes on my back and a single rolled-up drawing I headed toward the future, not knowing where to go or what to do. Loneliness suppressed by anger was all I could feel.