Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

  “Does that mean no sex, or just nothing you didn’t want?”

  “No sex. But I think I’d like some more.”

  He laughed. “Of course you would, silly. And I’ll bet he would, too.”

  “He just rang and invited me to another party. A formal affair, New Year’s Eve.”

  “The Black Party? Are you serious?” His eyes were huge.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  “Where is it?”

  “No idea.” He made a motion with his hand for me to continue. “I expect we’ll be ringing in the New Year at midnight with everyone else. But . . . well . . .”

  “You’d like to ring a few more intimate bells?”

  “That’s it. If that’s to happen, I’d have to stretch my curfew. But more important, I think I’d need to be ready for . . . well, for a little more than happened last time.”

  He nodded. “And you want to know if I think you should?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Simon, no one can answer that question for you. But here are some things to consider. First, no one gets inside you without protection, and you don’t get into someone else, either. Period, end of story. Full stop, as I think you Brits say. Second, if this is your first time—which I’m assuming it is—give some thought to whether this is the guy you want in your head for the rest of your life. Because your first time should be something you always remember. Something you always want to remember.”

  He paused, but I didn’t know what to say, so he added, “Was he gentle with you before?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “Then, would you want him to be the guy you always remember?”

  “I guess that’s what I need to decide.”

  “Having it happen on New Year’s is kind of special.”

  I nodded. “It would depend on the curfew, too.”

  “Or you could leave the party early. Play it by ear. I wouldn’t go with your mind made up, though; he might be intending to be a perfect gentleman again. Is that making you want him more?”

  I grinned. “It is, I admit.”

  “You could do a lot worse, Simon. But I’m not encouraging you. If you don’t have this experience for four more years, that’s just fine. There’s no rush.”

  He was right. There is no rush. I did spend some of the rest of my time before bed on schoolwork, but I also did some online research about sex between men. Not porn; honest research. Not sure why it had never occurred to me to do this before. I also looked into Massachusetts law regarding sex with minors, and it seems that as long as Luther has my full cooperation, at my age it’s not considered statutory rape.

  When I finally closed my laptop, I hadn’t made up my mind. I decided to take Ned’s advice and play it by ear.

  This next bit isn’t about Luther, but I need to make note. It kind of harks back to the day we arrived in Boston, that hot, steamy day in August, when it didn’t seem to me that it would ever be cool here.

  Well, it snowed on Saturday. Six inches! I’ve never seen so much snow. Persie, it seems, likes snow, so we bundled up and went out onto the patio and made a snowman. That wasn’t enough for her, though. She started in on some other shape I couldn’t figure out.

  “Persie, what are you making?”

  She stood up from her bent position near the ground. “It’s a cat. For the snowman.”

  A cat. Persie made a snowcat. Well, the least I could do was contribute the whiskers. I brushed snow off of one of the potted evergreens, broke off some needles, and gave them to Persie, who positioned them as carefully as if the cat were alive.

  Because of the Happy New Year timing, I got Mum to allow a curfew of one in the morning, though this wouldn’t leave much time if the ear I’m playing by decides it wants some alone time with Luther. We’d just have to see.

  If I thought Luther looked good before, well . . . in a tux? The guy is drop-dead gorgeous. On the ride over, I asked if this was the “Black Party” Ned had referred to. It was, so I asked what that meant.

  “It’s a Boston tradition in the gay community. Justin Dall and his partner, Lawrence McDonald, are fabulously wealthy. They own a townhouse here in the Back Bay, with a ballroom on the top floor, and each year they invite some of the same and some new people to a New Year’s Eve party. I think part of it is that the only way gay men get to dance together is if we throw our own parties. But also they like to meet new people, and they get a kick out of the fact that a lot of couples have had their start at this party. It’s a kind of mixer.”

  I decided against mentioning Daren Bateman’s courage. “Is that why you were going to go stag?”

  “Sure. But then I realised I’d already met someone new, someone I like very much.” He took my hand. “Just so you know, I expect to dance with other men, and you should do the same. But we arrive together, and we leave together, unless one of us misbehaves horribly.”

  “If I do any misbehaving tonight, I hope it will be with you.”

  He gave me an intense look. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  So much for playing it by ear. Or maybe that’s what had just happened.

  The entire evening for me was coloured by what we’d said in the taxi, knowing at least to some extent what would happen later. There was champagne, and I had enough to get a pleasant buzz, but not so much that I was tipsy. At one point, Luther advised me not to drink too much, and I could tell he wasn’t merely being solicitous ; he had something planned.

  Of course, just being in that environment was heady. I’d never ever been anywhere like it, and there was the distinct possibility that I never would again unless, someday, I could host a party like this, myself. Everywhere I looked, gay men. It was incredible and exciting and validating.

  Validating: the opposite of what I’d felt seeing Stephanie on Luther’s doorstep. So not only had he neutralised that feeling by apologising, but also he’d reversed it by giving me this amazing experience. Several times I wondered what was out there that would be anything like this for Kay. Surely trans individuals would benefit from this kind of validation, too.

  Around quarter of eleven, Luther cut into a dance I was having with a tall, Nordic-looking fellow. Into my ear, he said, “You turn into a pumpkin at one, correct?” I nodded. “How set are you on watching the ball drop with these folks?”

  “Isn’t it expected?”

  “There are nearly a hundred people here. Do you think they would miss us?”

  I held my breath for a few seconds as if that would help me decide. As if I needed to decide. “Let’s find out.”

  I wouldn’t say we rushed out, but I will say we wasted no time. We kissed and groped in the backseat of the taxi all the way to Luther’s, but once inside he slowed things down.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said. I followed him into the kitchen, where he’d already set out two champagne glasses (evidently newly purchased), a cotton towel, and a champagne stopper. “Hope you haven’t had too much to drink yet.” He opened his refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of La Grande Dame.

  This touched me so much it was everything I could do not to throw my arms around his neck. But I knew that would be exactly the wrong move. I held out my hand for the bottle, and he gave it to me to open. That gentle pop when champagne is opened correctly is music to my ears. I poured some into each glass, then stoppered the bottle and put it back in the fridge. I was about to reach for my glass when Luther picked up both of them.

  “You know what I’ve never done, but I’ve always wanted to?” I smiled and shook my head. “I’ve always wanted to drink champagne in bed with someone terrific, naked as the day we were born, and then have really nice sex. And then have more champagne. And then maybe more sex. And then—”

  I led the way to his bedroom, where I found another surprise. I turned towards him as he came through the door. “What’s all this?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve also always wanted to drink champagne naked in bed in candlelight.”

  There were
candles everywhere. He set the glasses down and walked from one candle to the next, lighting them, smiling at me. Then he wrapped his arms around my waist.

  “I’ve been wanting to say this all night,” he said. “You are absolutely stunning in a tux. Just the sight of you turns me on so much.” He let go and stepped back, touching only my arm with an outstretched finger. Slowly, he walked all the way around me, trailing his finger over my body as he moved. He stopped in front of me and, the touch so light I almost couldn’t feel it, he ran his finger from my lips to my chin, down the centre of my chest, without stopping until he touched my crotch. Still barely touching me, holding my eyes with his, he caressed me until I thought I would explode in my trousers. I closed my eyes and groaned.

  Suddenly he was all over me, fingers digging into my back, tongue on my jaw and then in my mouth. He undid my belt and waistband and pushed me onto my back on the bed. Cupping my balls with one hand, he took my dick in his mouth and did wondrous things to me. I yelled as I came and sank against the bed.

  When I opened my eyes he was naked. He removed the rest of my clothes, threw the covers back, and fetched the glasses.

  “Happy New Year,” he said. We clinked and drank, and I reached for his dick. But he lifted my hand away. “I have a suggestion I hope you’ll like.”

  Here it was. I had expected it. But suddenly I was nervous as hell. It must have showed.

  “I know it will be your first time. And I don’t want to brag, exactly, but I’m really great when it comes to sex with a virgin. If you need to, you can stop me at any point, and we can do what we did last time. But I hope you’re ready to try. Are you?”

  I watched his face for about three seconds, lifted my glass, drained it, handed it to him, and threw myself back down onto the bed. He drained his glass, set both of them on the bedside table, and reached for two things in a drawer: lubricant, and a condom.

  He kissed me and kissed me—my face, my mouth, my neck, my tits, my belly, my balls, my thighs, until I was hard all over again. He turned me gently and kissed everywhere he could reach. Everywhere.

  He wasn’t just bragging. He knew what he was doing, and he was very gentle with me. My research had not quite prepared me for this experience, for either the good or the not-so-good parts. But I had reason to believe that the good parts would get even better while the rest would matter less and less.

  When we’d recovered enough to sit up again, Luther refreshed our glasses. We sat silently for several minutes, sipping those marvellous bubbles, basking in the afterglow. Then he leaned towards me and gave me a sweet kiss. “Thank you, Red.”

  “Thank me?”

  “Yes. For being brave. And sexy. For being you.” He clinked his glass against mine.

  I sipped and leaned back against the pillows. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Something secret?”

  I laughed. “Not exactly.” I took another sip. “I was stark raving furious with my mother when she married Brian Morgan and moved both of us, lock, stock, and barrel, to Boston. Furious!” Another sip. “My litany, in my rant at her, was that she was ruining my chances for getting into Oxford, where my father had really wanted me to go. Where I had really wanted to go. I was at Swithin in London, a school famous for prepping students for OxCam, as we refer to Oxford and Cambridge together, as though they were Siamese twins instead of siblings locked in rivalry. I was sure that my fabulous marks, and the fact that my grandfather had been at Magdalen College, would get me in for sure, but only if I finished at Swithin. But since then, I’ve found out that if I hadn’t been kidnapped, if I hadn’t been forced into St. Boniface school in Boston, if I hadn’t been forced to expand my outlook in several ways, Oxford would not have wanted me.”

  I took another sip, and Luther said, “So you’re glad you were kidnapped?”

  “Well, what I was really going to say was that Oxford would not have been the only thing I’d have missed out on.” I waved my glass for emphasis. “Don’t worry that I’m going to get all clingy on you, but—this, you, would never have happened in London.”

  “Why not?”

  “I had no intro into the gay community there. I had no Ned. I knew a couple of other kids at school who were probably gay, but I wasn’t chums with them. So I would have lost out on Oxford, and I would have lost out on great sex.”

  “And do you know that you haven’t lost out on Oxford?”

  I wasn’t sure where to start. He didn’t know very much about this oh, so important part of my life. “We haven’t really talked, have we? Not about important things. I guess that’s mostly okay. But Oxford is really important to me. As it happens, they wait-listed me because they weren’t impressed with my work at Swithin. It wasn’t until people at St. Boniface raised a ruckus that they capitulated and gave me interviews with four tutors, which is a lot. The interviews went really well, but—I’m still pretty nervous about getting in. But if I do, it’s all due to having come here. Against my will. Profoundly against my will. I was horrid to my mother.”

  We let that sit for a minute. Then Luther said, “Can I tell you something?” He resettled himself a little closer to me. “I really, truly wish that I could see you again in a few years, to see what you’re like then. To see what else you’ve learned, about yourself, about life. You are going to be one amazing gay guy.”

  I laughed. “You never know. Perhaps you’ll take a trip to England, or I’ll come back to visit, and we could meet up again. I’d kind of like to see where you go from here, too.”

  We didn’t finish the champagne; I would have been positively ill otherwise. Luther called a taxi and threw on some jeans and a jumper, and I donned my formal attire again. He walked me out to the taxi, opened the door, and kissed me.

  “Let’s wait a few weeks before we connect again,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  I smiled; he was still Luther, and that was fine. “I’ll give you a call when I hear from Oxford. Should be a few weeks, tops. How’s that?”

  “Perfect.”

  And without another word, he turned back towards the house.

  On the ride home, I grinned like a fool. I wasn’t in love; that much I was sure of. And if I never saw Luther again, tonight had been a great way to end it. But I’m fairly sure I will see him. And if so, it just might be that the condom is on the other dick.

  Boston, Sunday, 13 January

  I’ve neglected my journal lately. It’s funny, really; when I had nothing but complaints, I wrote all the time—in the beginning of my time in Boston, it was every day for a while. But now that I’m feeling less angry with the universe, I’m not feeling the same need, unless I have some sexploits to write about. Of course, it’s also that schoolwork didn’t let up for me despite the Christmas holiday. I got everything done I needed to, and done well, I think. And since 7 January, it’s been back to classes, with new assignments and more work.

  After my evening with Luther I didn’t see Ned alone until Wednesday evening. I went into the kitchen after dinner, ostensibly to help Ned, but really wanting to talk with him about my adventure. When I told him how we had left things, he chuckled. “Good old Luther. Don’t let him get caught admitting that someone got under his skin.”

  “Did I do that?”

  “Honey, does the sun rise in the east?”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m in no rush to see him again, though I hope I will at some point.”

  “Don’t call him. That’s the surest way to get him to call you.”

  I knew he was right. I had promised to ring Luther when I heard from Oxford. Maybe I’d wait and see if he rang me first.

  Speaking of Oxford, it’s not exactly late for offer letters, but I don’t think it’s too early, either, and I haven’t seen any. At least I haven’t seen a rejection, either. Every day, on my way home from school, I make a huge effort not to feel anxious, in case anything has arrived. Dr. Metcalf is carefully not asking me; he knows I’ll tell him as soon as there’s something to tell.

/>   Boston, Thursday, 17 January

  Still nothing from Oxford. On tenterhooks, now.

  Kay and I have stepped up her prep; the March bee isn’t far off. And she has lots of time now, because her mother has decided to stop sending her to that school. There was a fist fight; Kay slugged a boy who wouldn’t let her into the boys’ room. I think it surprised the hell out of her that she had that in her, but her determination to be who she is, as she once put it, has not flagged.

  Maddy and I have become best buddies. I was a little worried about it at first. I said to her, “What if a boy is interested and doesn’t know I’m gay? He’ll think you’re with me.”

  She grinned. “As a matter of fact, another boy is interested. I’m going out on my first date! Other than the dance with you, of course, but that doesn’t really count, does it?”

  “No.” I smiled at her. “That’s terrific. I want to hear all about it.”

  “And anyway, everyone saw you and Daren dance. It’s been quite the topic of discussion.”

  “Are they freaking out?”

  She shook her head. “No; just wondering if you’re a couple.”

  How cool is that? They don’t care that it’s two guys. Or if they do, it’s not rising to the surface in a threatening way. I truly hope it won’t be too much longer until this is how it is for Kay.

  Boston, Sunday, 20 January

  Kay’s had her first two sessions with the psychologist. She saw her alone for the first one and with her mother for the second. There will be a few more before Kay moves on to medical experts and the first stages of the treatments, but so far it doesn’t look as though there will be a snag anyplace.

  Friday I talked with Dr. Metcalf about setting up another practice bee for Kay. This time it wouldn’t be with her school chums. This time it would be with volunteers from St. Boniface. And this time, there would be eliminations, and a winner.

  He loved it. He said he’d poll the other students on his roster and work with the other counsellors to drum up some stiff competition. He was pretty sure there were one or two past Scripps contestants in the student body. We set a date for the evening of 7 February.