My hands won’t stop shaking.

I’ve never read aloud before. I mean, I’ve recited other people’s works, but never my own. Not to my mother, not to another student, and certainly not in front of a crowd the size of the one. There’s something more intimate in revealing my own thoughts, a higher stake than merely aping someone else’s words.

It’s beginning to dawn on me that this may have been a bad idea.

“We’re waiting. Begin William.” Professor Demain adjusts his position, looking expectantly as he settles back into his chair. The rest of the students in his lecture hall unconsciously mimic his posture. Except for me, standing alone in front of them.

My vocal cords freeze, refusing to form any words. Complete paralysis. Briefly, I wonder if I’m going to have another one of my attacks. The only thing that could make this situation worse is if I were to start wheezing uncontrollably. Or maybe that’s the only thing that could save it. Irony slaps me in the face, as the dust particles floating in the room have no effect on my asthma for the first time in twenty-one years. Biology has betrayed again, only this time with the cruel twist of rendering me too healthy, refusing to provide an option to escape this folly, and rendering my choices as extremely limited.

It’s too late to walk out, and there’s probably no chance to wake up and start the day again. When my professor shifts impatiently in his chair, I know that I am running out of time. Once again, I curse the sudden, impetuous nerve that prompted me to volunteer for this. Sheer stupidity.

I take a deep breath, and try to calm my nerves. It surely can’t be as bad as I’m building it up to be? Count to three, and begin, ”Our beautiful love is radiant. I would never be afraid in it. All the world’s lies, erased by the sparkle in your eyes.”

The first stanza is just barely finished when the fitful titter of laughter erupts, spreading sporadically through the room. The heat of embarrassment flushes through my cheeks, followed immediately by a dreadful wobbling at the knees.

//You’re a stupid fool//

My own subconscious mocks me in accompaniment to the ridicule around me as I run from the lecture hall. I’m so stupid, how could I ever have put myself through that? I’ll never be able to show my face among my peers again. I shall never want to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are corners in the library that I think no other student has seen except me. Is it tragic to admit that I’m familiar with every dark inch of this place, that it’s my sanctuary, and the fact no one dares venture into its depths is the very reason I seek it out.

Narrow rows of books have sequestered me for the last week, shrouded me in solitude every day since I’ve removed my name from Professor Demain’s roster. I penned my explanatory note from this very cubby, sent it with a messenger, as I was too mortified to deliver it in person. The only reason I’ve attended my other courses, is because I share them with no other students from his lectures.

I’ve come to acknowledge my cowardice. It’s so much easier than having to face anyone again.

For the hour that’s now free, I come here, tuck myself into the farthest corner table and write what his class was supposed to be an outlet for. Although my words have taken a more maudlin slant lately, leaning away from the earlier frivolities of love, and dealing with the crushing of the human spirit that is all I think about lately.

There’s a wall to my back, and a partition in front of me, blocking my view of anyone who should mistakenly wander down here. I feel truly alone, and it’s a mood that I’m learning to accept.

Loneliness.

I think that is what I crave the most about this location, the validation of what I’ve known all along, but haven’t admitted until now. To be shunned by others is my destiny.  All the parties that my station demands I be included in are a sham required by society and no measure of true acceptance.

I. Am. Alone. It’s a bitter realization, unsweetened by the sugary blindness of denial. The deepest emotions of my soul cannot be shared with anyone without ridicule.

 Rubbing my eyelids with gentle fingertips, I know I can’t wipe away my fame as an untalented failure. A soft sigh escapes, mourning the innocence I’ve lost.

Sensation of movement to my left startles me, and I turn my head in alarm, not knowing what to expect. Tension in every muscle at the unexpected intrusion, and my eyes snap open as I lean back. Who else would be *here*?

“Hello William.”

I recognize a fellow from Professor Demain’s class. Charles. Charles is his name. I think I’ve spoken to him, perhaps twice?  That isn’t to say that I haven’t noticed him. I look around nervously before answering, checking to see that we are still the only two here. “Hello, Charles. What are you doing here?”

He’s watching me with hazel eyes that I recall, do that a lot- watch. Charles has never spoken in class to my recollection, just taken everything in with thoughtful contemplation. I’ve wondered in the past what’s going on behind that studied expression, if his thoughts were complicated theories that caused that downward slant at the edge of his left eyebrow.

He looks at the floor, dips his chin down farther before looking back up at me. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

I feel a flush of embarrassment spreading over my upper chest, and consciously fight to keep from obviously surrendering to it. I count backwards from five before answering, and my voice sounds steady enough to my own ears, not obvious. “I’ve had a change in my schedule, I had to drop Professor Demain.”

His eyes slide to the papers on the table in front of me, and then back as a small dimple of regret forms. He must suspect the truth, but his next words don’t accuse at all. “I was afraid of that.”

I don’t know why it seems hard to breathe suddenly, but I force an inhalation and throw my arm protectively around my writings, gathering them up into a loose and hasty pile. “There was a very important family matter that had to be taken care of,” I lie, shoving handfuls of papers into my satchel.

“That’s why you’re here?” The words are spoken softly, appropriate for our location, but they seem to shout in my head, proclaiming me a liar.

“I had some free time,” I say in defense, before I realize that it’s none of his business and clamp my lips together.

He looks quickly around the deserted space, and his words aren’t unkind as he says, “Are you going to give up William, die down here all alone?”

I take extra care fastening the leather tie that will keep my poems safe. It’s an activity that allows me to concentrate on something besides him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re going to let them stop you.”

He’s brought it out, and I can’t sweep it back into the corner anymore. “I should thank them for waking me to the fact that I can’t write, that all my efforts were an exercise in futility. I am a wretched writer, and thank God I was stopped.”

His hand on mine is what causes me to look up finally. “*I* liked your poem William, I’d like to hear more.”

“So you can laugh too?” All the feelings I felt standing there while they laughed at me come rushing back, and I pull my arm away. “Admit it, it was awful.”

He doesn’t let go of me as I try to jerk my arm away, keeps clutching a handful of my shirtsleeve. “I thought it was very honest. Not everyone can appreciate that, and even if they can, sometimes they won’t admit it.”

“Honest?” The bitter laugh of disbelief is mine, a graphic display of self-defense. “I’ll never write another word.” It’s a lie. My pack is full of more atrocious work, words that won’t stop coming. They creep into my mind everywhere- at the dinner table, walking down the street, lying in my bed at night. I’ve tried to stop them, and I can’t.

“You will,” he says knowingly. “You don’t have a choice.”

“How did you know I was here?”  The question has been hovering there, behind the initial shock of seeing him.

His intense stare unnerves me as he answers. “I followed you here.”

I quickly recover from that confession, ignoring the strange fluttering in my stomach as I glance at the wall clock. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Professor Demain’s class right now?”

“I’ve had a change in my schedule, I had to drop Professor Demain.” He repeats my earlier words back to me in an uncanny accurateness. “There was a very important matter I had to take care of.”

I’m flustered, and have no idea of how to respond as black lashes wink to cover his hazel irises for just a moment.

“There’s no acceptance of artistic merit there, I’ve decided to have my own poetry group. I want you to come.”  He asks as I sit mute, “Say you will?”

Some spark within me flares before I can crush it, and I find myself asking against my better judgment, “ When?”

“Tomorrow.” Pressing a slip of paper into my hand, he adds, “Here’s my address.”  Charles leaves while I stare at the elegant script directing me to a location near to my own home.

Tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How many thousands of times have I passed this very townhouse, unaware, and even uncaring of its inhabitants? ‘Head in the clouds’- that’s what my mother always says to me. That, and ‘poetry won’t put food on the table William.’ I’ve prided myself on my keen powers of observation, but I haven’t even paid attention to my basic environment, and the things so close to home. I’ve walked oblivious down this street, and missed what could be a kindred soul.

I center my thumb over the doorbell and press it down. Thirty seconds to admire the elaborately scrolled ironwork gate to the left of the door, and I’m surprised when Charles pulls the door open. Somehow I’d expected a butler, or a housekeeper, either of which would be fitting with the first impression of the affluence of this residence.

His face lights up into a winsome smile as he notices me. “William. I’m so glad you could make it.” Stepping back into a caramel colored tile hall, he invites me in with a gesture of his hand. I can’t detect anything but genuine welcome.

“You have a beautiful home,” I say in appreciation as I step through the threshold, eyes roving over the artwork, a dainty chair upholstered in chocolate velvet, and finally resting on a blue and white china vase brimming with highly scented peach colored roses. That’s the same shade my own mother prefers, declining the ‘vulgarity’ of red blooms.

“I’ll tell my mother you said so,” he adds with a wink. “Let me take your coat.” As soon as I shrug out of it, he whisks it over to a mahogany coat rack, and hangs it on one of the brass hooks.

“Is she home?” I inquire, trying to discern the noises that would indicate someone else’s presence.

“No, she and my father are on holiday.”  He indicates a room off of the entry hall, and that I should proceed him. “I’ve given the staff the afternoon off, so we should be quite alone. No interruptions.”

How very considerate, he’s probably concerned that I will still feel uncomfortable with the possibility of others hearing my poetry. It’s the very mark of an excellent host. I can’t help but wonder why I’ve never taken the time to get to know him better.

“Here,” he offers me a glass of what looks like lemonade.

A sip proves it’s a harder cider. My eyes widen at the unexpected bite, but I’m already tipping the glass again as I lower myself onto the settee. Charles has already drained his glass, and pours another. Before joining me, he raises the pitcher in non-verbal inquiry and replaces it on the table as I show him mine is still full.

A few moments later, he settles down next to me, his knee brushes mine, and I take another sip of my beverage at a loss as how to dismiss the small thrill of excitement that twinges through me. I’m not used to this kind of situation, never having experienced more than a few educational fumbles with cousins that never led to anything serious. It must be will power that keeps my hand from shaking.

“Professor Demain is an idiot, and his class is full of cretins with no sense of artistry,” Charles confesses with an important wave of his glass.

His sentiments are some I’ve shared briefly, before the more prevalent ones regarding my lack of talent and intelligence began overtaking them. It’s nice to hear someone else defend me, especially since I’ve stopped doing it myself.

“I’d like to hear more of that piece you were reading in class, you never got to finish it.” The request is spit out just before he takes the last bit of liquid in the glass, hastily spins it in the bottom and tips it to flow between his lips. He squints at the taste, then sets the glass down before focusing his attention on me again.

I can feel the familiar sense of dread and humiliation choking me, pulling me into the narrow frame of reference encompassed in those few moments. I close my eyes, trying to block the remembrance out, then curse my tendency to blush easily as I feel the heat suffusing my face and neck. That moment’s sting is still too sharp in memory.

“It’s okay,” his voice softly reassures.

After all the trouble he’s gone to, it seems rude to refuse. My eyes are still closed. It seems easier not to look at him right now, because I may lose my nerve if I do. Instead, I drain my glass, and lean sideways to set it on the small ebony side table I remember being to my right. I don’t have to look at my notes for this one. I have it memorized. My mouth opens, and the words spill out of their own accord.

I don’t realize how tensely I’m sitting until his weight shifts next to me and I feel his hand brace against my thigh, seconds before his lips close over my own, sucking the syllables directly from me. My body goes rigid, and my eyes immediately snap open in alarm.

And he’s still touching me, hand skimming a bit higher, until it just rests against the bulge in my trousers.  Hazel eyes watching me, noting the astonishment in my own as he tilts his head and pushes his tongue past my stunned lips. He may as well have just stolen the air from my lungs, because I can’t seem to draw a breath on my own.

One of his hands circles around my neck, crushing the curling hairs at the nape of my neck as he pulls me into him. Some small portion of my brain sends out a protest, but that is quickly overridden by astonishment or disbelief, I don’t know which, but I do know that I can’t for the life of me seem to move.

He cups my genitals in his hand. A gentle squeeze on his part is followed by Charles dragging the curve of his lower lip along my jaw line, just underneath the hollow dip where it joins my neck, and up to my ear.

“It’s okay,” I hear again, softer, more intimate this time in the space of centimeters between us. I’ve wanted this for such a long time, this acknowledgement of someone who can understand the intricacies of my soul, who can see beneath the exterior that hides my true self, and won’t mock me for the vast insecurity that has created who I am. I just never thought to find it here.

I thought I could never face anyone from that class again, but here I am, doing more than recapturing my pride , more than saving face. This is something with the potential to be far more damaging than words of rhyme or prose on paper. Actions here could change both of our lives forever, and invite wrath far greater than a few giggles from a group of immature youths at college.

And the choice is so fragile, wavering there between acceptance and refusal. Boyhood fumbling, physical sensations of pleasure enjoyed momentarily and filed away for future perusal, the possibility of something that could become more. All of these potential outcomes weighed against the devastation and tragedy that could touch both of us if someone found out.

I’ve found the world to be an unforgiving place.

I can stop this now, set the course back to one of polite words, and mutual appreciation. Embrace the courteous exchange of meaningless words and the suppressed current of desire that surfaces only briefly before being banished. I could, but with him so close, with the feel of his hands tugging desperately at me, I know that isn’t the way for us. We’ll ignore all logic, and face the consequences when our heads are clearer.

He’s unfastened me, fingers creeping in to lightly stroke me, fingernail scraping so delicately along the shaft of my penis, no intention of pain. With every bit of its slow progression, it leaves tightening flesh, the twitching of muscle called to action from dormancy, the response of my terrible loneliness, clinging to the hope of acceptance.

“William,” he says once again before he slides around to join our mouths in an anxious lustful kiss, barely allowing the last consonant to be fully vocalized. He’s obviously overcome whatever personal warnings he may have had.

It seems I’ve banished these warnings as well.

I need to feel this, to inspire this craving, this insatiable need that I’ve never motivated in another before. Blood pounds in my head as I raise my hand, rest it on the front of his shirt. I flick the button in time to the whoosh- whoosh inside my skull, with the tip of my index finger.  Flick. Flick. Flick. When I finally make a commitment, and unbutton the first fastener, Charles responds with a rumble deep in his throat, laying me back against the arm of the settee.

The round curve of the velvet covered arm supports my back, bowing my spine as he follows me. Bodies contorting to the lines of the furniture, we never break contact even for one second, he still grips me in his palm, stroking as his other hand frees my shirt from my waistband.

I watch his hands, the tangle he’s making of my clothes, anything but looking directly in his eyes. If I did, I might feel the need to ask questions that shouldn’t be answered right now, like: what does this mean, are we friends, lovers? What will we be tomorrow? It’s better just to focus on the physical sensations, the concrete need and lust that don’t need explanation.

I’ve laid his shirt back, exposing smooth skin to my sight, only slightly stunned at what I’ve never seen in this context before, and not having much chance to gawk as he’s got my shirt half way off by now, chest to chest as he shifts and struggles to get my pants off.

I let out a small nervous laugh when I think of what a ridiculous picture we would surely make to anyone coming in right now.

His eyes flicker from their task, move to meet my face, filled with confusion at first, but quickly taken over by amusement when they see no scorn in mine. “Something’s funny?”

“No.” I find my capacity for speech again, not unusual since I have a tendency to blather when I’m nervous.

As his hand starts kneading, I lose all capability of protest. It feels so good. I submit fully, awed at the contact with another human being. Hands at my shoulders, grasping at my arms, small of my back, trying to pull me closer to him. I’m awestruck at the fact that someone could desire me, could display this kind of fervor. No one’s ever wanted me this way. It’s an amazing feeling.

I feel so tight, so ready to come, Charles stops and I look up to find him watching me, quiet, with pupils flaring black against the hazel rings of his irises His chest rises and falls for a count of ten, and he still says nothing.

“Is everything okay?” I ask nervously, running a thousand different scenarios through my head in the course of the few seconds it takes to speak the sentence. Trying to memorize the feeling of someone’s desire so obvious and blatant, in case this is the last time I ever experience it.

His eyes drift down, to the contact of our bodies. “Oh, everything’s just fine.”

My worries are erased as he kisses me again, my neck straining as I try to meet him pressure for pressure, and feel decadent when he swings my knees outward, causing my pelvis to grind forward into his hand, he pumps my cock, fucking me with his fist. It’s delicious, and arousing, and I’ve never felt anything quite like it. I know I won’t be able to contain myself if he continues this for much longer. I can feel moisture seeping from me, squeezing through his knuckles. I try to concentrate on anything but what he’s doing to me: repeating the alphabet, reciting long sequences of numbers-anything to prolong this moment. If I can control my breathing, the shuddering sigh that I’m holding just at the entrance of my throat won’t have any chance of escape.

And then everything changes.

I grunt in surprise as he lifts my weight up, change to a gasp as I feel a sudden, cold wetness, and burning as I stretch to take him inside of me. He seems to know my own anatomy better than I do, how to move me, and position us to the best advantage.  I want to panic, this is so new, so different, but he keeps pumping my dick, and his tongue starts stabbing sharply between my teeth, and he’s slowly buried deeper, and deeper inside of me. Pleasure balanced so perfectly against the new strangeness, I don’t want to end it.

His hips move against me, and the velvet nap of the settee seems rougher than I remember it, friction between the material and the skin of my back is hot, and I may be raw before this is done. The thought is fleeting though, as the beginning of strange noises form at the base of my throat, I can’t expel them except through the seal of our lips. I have a feeling that if I could, I would scream as the lonely void inside of me is filled with him.

Maybe I won’t have to be alone anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m feeling insanely happy today, striding through the campus without my usual cautious and defensive demeanor. I stare right through those I’ve been hiding from, carrying with me the secret that I’m not alone anymore. Their opinions can’t trap me anymore, because I’ve found Charles. And although we can’t openly acknowledge what’s happened between us, it’s there to buoy my spirits, and I find that other’s opinions don’t carry the same weight that they did yesterday.

The hard edge of my poetry notebook is just under my palm, sitting once more in its rightful place on top of the pile of books I carry to class. I didn’t sleep last night, sat in bed with my knees drawn up, scribbling wild tandems of thought that wouldn’t settle in my brain, sentences and sentences about my experience of the evening. Every careful line filling the pages of the book I threatened to burn just a week ago.

Instead of going downstairs for breakfast this morning, I wrote pages of how I think mine and Charles’ first meeting will go today, things I want to say to him, what I hopefully imagine he’ll say. A discreet scene, tucked away from the ever-sharp eyes of student and faculty, a touch and possibly a hasty kiss that is interrupted by someone coming towards us. I don’t even try to suppress the insane grin that curves my lips as I imagine it.

Consumed with my own internal fantasies, I almost miss the crowd of students gathered in front of the building ahead of me. I might have walked on by, but the arrival of several police officers shooing everyone back is too much for my curiosity, and I walk over.

I wish I never had.

A body lies crumpled near the front steps, fashionable overcoat twisted down over broad shoulders, dull film settling over unseeing eyes, face incredibly pale, even more so than the light stone of the building. The name Charles slides quietly past my lips in horror as another student speaks it with more volume in response to one of the officer’s query.

I was going to tell him that I loved him this morning.