Mirrors of Narcissus Page 13

  Yet even as I told myself all this, I knew I would be unable to resist its seductive pull; to know it was out there in the night was more than I could stand. Just to go there, to reconfirm its existence, what was wrong with that? After all, I would only be watching it as an interested observer, as a scientist observes the mating habits of a lower species.

  I turned my steps toward the darkness.

  As before, I headed toward the restroom just behind the grandstand. The way was now familiar to me; I’d come here several times during the day to enjoy the contrast it provided with what I knew went on at night. As I approached the restroom now, I peered cautiously about, surveying the whole surrounding area, the shadows under the trees. There seemed to be no one out here tonight. In the darkness of the bushes behind the restroom, I noticed the bench was empty. I walked over to it and casually sat down.

  My heart was thudding in my chest. I told myself there was nothing suspicious in my sitting here on this bench at this time of night. In fact, I willed myself into believing that I was an innocent student who had studied a little too hard and had just stepped out for a breath of fresh air before going back to his books. Who was to say I had the faintest idea that this place was a homosexual cruising ground at night? After all, so very few people did.

  I wished I had something to do with my hands, a cigarette, perhaps. But it appeared I was all alone here tonight. I began to relax.

  More time passed and the quiet nighttime sounds all around me came to seem less sinister. Indeed, there was something rather comforting about the dark. Perhaps this was my natural element. Ever since boyhood, it had always been the dark that I’d been drawn to, the sinister, the criminal and the forbidden. I’d longed to be a creature of the night—able to see where others are unable—and to have a secret power over others.

  When I was about seven, there was a weekly adventure series on television called the Black Avenger. For reasons which I forget, the hero, who had another identity during the day—an ordinary banker or something—transformed himself at night into a sort of one-man vigilante, clothing himself all in black from head to foot and going about seeking evil-doers to punish. What gave his situation an unbearable pathos for me was the fact that society in general, and the newspapers and police in particular, were under the mistaken assumption that he was the main criminal responsible for a number of evil deeds. Indeed, all the evidence did seem to point that way. It was only us, the sympathetic audience, who were privy to the real nature of the Black Avenger. It gave me such a feeling of helpless anger—and a feeling of superiority over the bumbling, blind authorities—to watch as the Avenger just managed to foil some criminal’s attempted crime, only to be discovered by a reporter or someone with the incriminating evidence in his hands—the jewels which he’d just snatched from the hands of the thief, and was about to return to the safe.

  The Black Avenger had never been very popular among my friends, but I’d always worshipped him with a secret feeling of collusion. Like him, and like all those creatures which only come out at night, and for whom night is the natural habitat, I knew I was a fundamentally different being. Perhaps the Black Avenger was still the secret idol of my heart, and continued to influence me in subtle ways. For it was darkness which had cloaked his true identity, and which had nurtured his heroic apartness.

  I gave a start. Someone had come up from behind me so suddenly that for a second I thought I’d been ambushed. But he just sat down next to me on the bench. It was the jogger I’d seen earlier.

  I was too scared to say a word, and for a long time just sat there in silence, gazing straight ahead. I was too nervous to look at him. I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me.

  From the corner of my eye I could see he was wearing a dark-colored sweatshirt and running shorts. His feet were clad in white sneakers. His proximity was making me nervous and I was thinking of walking away.

  Then, without a word, he dropped his hand gently onto my crotch. So sudden had it been that I just sat there. I tried to act calm, peering into the darkness all around, everywhere but at him. I wondered if I should reciprocate. It felt silly just sitting there with his hand on me, as if I were a junior high school girl too scared to react when her boyfriend first puts his hand on her breast.

  As casually as I could, I shifted my hand onto his crotch. He was wearing nothing underneath his running shorts, and I could clearly feel his erection straining upward. He had a big dick, perhaps eight or nine inches long.

  For the first time I turned my head to look at him. I couldn’t see his face clearly in the dark, and had no idea how old he was, but he was well built, probably an athlete. His hair was cropped short and he wore glasses.

  I began stroking his dick over his shorts as his hand dropped away from my crotch. My nervousness had seemed to magically evaporate with my first touch of his dick, as if I’d been energized by the contact. Indeed, I became quite aggressive; my hand felt a need which my mind tried vainly to deny.

  Suddenly he got up. I wondered if he was going away. He stepped a few paces away and stopped, looked back at me. Was this an invitation to follow him? Looking around and confirming that we were all alone, I got up and took a couple of steps in his direction. He began walking away.

  Again, I wondered if he was leaving. As I continued to watch him, he stopped about twenty feet away and looked back at me. I took several more steps in his direction, and when I came close to him, he again moved off. We continued this stop and go ritual as he led me farther and farther away from the bench.

  Finally when we were in the darkest part of the woods he let me catch up with him. Looking around, he leaned back against a tree. I moved next to him and reached my hand down to stroke him. For a few minutes I reveled in the feel of the hardness beneath his shorts. But my partner didn’t seem to be relaxed enough to enjoy it; he kept peering around in the darkness.

  Abruptly he moved away and I followed.

  We were moving into the area south of the football field. I saw that there was a wire fence surrounding the field at this point and just alongside it, a hedge. On the other side of the hedge was a building which I believed was a shower room, or an athletic equipment storage place. The football field was brightly lit, and the contrast between the lights on the field and the darkness of the encircling hedge threw the narrow space between fence and hedge into the utmost blackness.

  My partner stood for a moment at the entrance to this narrow space and looked back at me. It was clear that he had led me here on purpose—no doubt this was familiar territory to him.

  He stepped between the fence and hedge and disappeared into the darkness there. I slipped in after him. After cautiously feeling my way in the darkness, I came upon him leaning back against the hedge. Here, no one could see us; we were completely shielded from the eyes of the world.

  I went up to him and dropped my hand onto his crotch. His dick was still poking straight up, bigger than ever, almost comically distending his shorts. I stroked it, as before, over the shorts, but then, unable to stand it anymore, pulled away the elastic waistband so I could touch actual flesh, feel its warmth.

  He grunted softly at the contact. I could smell his sweat in the dark and something else—a strong whiff of semen.

  All this time he never looked me in the face but was constantly peering around, jerking his head this way and that. I wished he would relax more, while feeling the wildest excitement myself. I slipped my other hand up under his sweatshirt and rubbed his chest. The muscle tone was firm and elastic. I liked what I felt. He was definitely an athlete, perhaps had played on the very football field so clearly visible just beyond the wire fence. Beneath my fingers I felt his heart pounding.

  It seemed as if we were all alone in the world. This complete stranger and I were accomplices in an act of uttermost intimacy, right here in the middle of the campus. Until a few minutes ago, we had had no idea of each other’s existence. I felt a surge of power, a giddy drunkenness which made my head swim. In this dark, I was
freed for the first time from the burden of being looked at and admired, from the pressure of having to be the beautiful one. Here, I was just another shadow in the night, another boy looking for surreptitious thrills. I was almost overwhelmed by this strange new freedom. Anything goes, I thought. Anything. And no one knows anything about this. What’s to stop me?

  I pulled his shorts down to his thighs, freeing his dick, and immediately the sexy fragrance of sweat and semen became even more pungent. I stroked him with greater freedom, occasionally strumming his balls lightly with my fingers. I knew he was feeling good, he had to be feeling good. He’d thrown back his head and his eyes were closed. He was no longer concerned about being seen; he had given himself up completely to receiving his pleasure.

  I dropped to my knees, and though it was almost too dark to see it, his dick came alive with a pungent immediacy. I could feel its moist heat inches from my face. Kneeling there on the soft earth, I could smell the moldy odor of his tennis shoes, and the sweet perfume of the crushed blades of grass beneath me. I ran my palms up and down his thighs, feeling the wiry hairs there as I lowered my face to his crotch. With trembling fingers I pulled the upright shaft of his dick a little away from its tight cling to his stomach and parted my lips. The moist, meaty warmth of the glans slid into my mouth and I was in a dream.

  This can’t be happening to me, I told myself. This isn’t happening.

  I played my tongue up and down the length of the shaft and paused to squeeze the glans softly between my lips. It seemed to swell up inside my mouth like a hot plum as I ran my tongue around it. I pulled my face away and returned to tickle with the pointed tip of my tongue the underside of the glans where it is most sensitive. The whole dick twitched with each contact, straining up harder against the stomach, reaching for the stars. And each twitch of the dick brought a soft cry of pleasure from my partner.

  I kissed the crown of the glans and let its blunt moist warmth play along my cheek, sliding it along my upper lip and all around my mouth without putting it in. I wished this could last forever. For the first time in my life I was indulging in one of my most cherished boyhood fantasies. But I could feel my partner was being pushed to the edge of his endurance by my teasing.

  I gripped the shaft again and sank it into my mouth as far as it would go, until I almost gagged, then pulled my face back until it was only halfway in. Keeping my head still, I began stroking the lower, exposed part of the dick, leaving the rest buried in my mouth.

  Within seconds I heard a stuttered gasp and my mouth instantly filled with warmth, almost gagging me by its suddenness. For the briefest moment, I felt a twinge of panic at what I’d done. And then I concentrated on enjoying the sensation of what was in my mouth, savoring the salty metal taste of it, its gluey texture, before swallowing it down. The essence of cum seemed to permeate my mouth, my entire being. It was a taste I knew well from boyhood, having often naughtily tried the flavor of my own ejaculate. But having it warm and fresh from another boy gave it an added deliciousness. I continued sucking him as if urging on a further effusion. His dick in my mouth continued to twitch, even as its rock-like rigidity began softening into flesh. It was still twitching a little as he withdrew it from my mouth, from my universe.

  Then I felt him gently push my head away. As soon as I was disengaged he slipped his shorts back up.

  I got to my feet and ran my hands over his hard buttocks.

  I tried to look him in the face but he was once again peering furtively around into the darkness. He wouldn’t say a word.

  Still peering around, he began walking away, back the way we’d come. I followed. When he reached the entrance to the narrow space we were in, he stepped out into the open and did three or four squats. Then, without a word or a backward look, he continued his interrupted jog. I watched him running down the bicycle path, his silhouette fading, fading, then blending with the greater shadow of Nightworld.

  He never turned around.

  3

  The air in the room was filled with hazy smoke and Christine and I were lying side by side on my bed. It was near sundown, and in my mirror I could see the reflection of the skies above the women’s dorm.

  “Have you ever noticed,” I said languidly, “that if, instead of looking directly at the sunset, you look at its reflection in the mirror, for example, it looks so much more beautiful?”

  “Oh?” Christine blinked at me with heavy-lidded gravity. She accepted the joint I handed her.

  “It’s true,” I continued. “In the reflection it looks like some marvelous, magical landscape with a fairy-tale castle and a golden forest. Like an illustration in a children’s book I used to read as a kid. Maybe something philosophical can be read into that: how much more potent illusions are than the real thing.”

  “Pot profundity,” she said, taking another hit of her joint and passing it back to me. “All those lovely thoughts of yours are like so much smoke.” She blew out the smoke she’d been holding in. “It only seems deep now. Wait till tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re probably right,” I laughed.

  Just then we heard a door down the hallway open, then close. We knew Scott was still in the library studying, and wouldn’t be coming back for a while. Recently he spent most of his evenings there working on his term paper. Christine had just finished hers—that was what we were celebrating now. We’d invited Scott to celebrate with us but he had declined. He had a strong aversion to drugs of any kind, though he didn’t oppose our using it.

  “Do you think he’ll join us when he’s done?” asked Christine.

  “No, I don’t think so. He knows you’re here, and he wants to give us our privacy so we can, you know…. Being the gentleman he is.”

  “I feel badly about that. It’s the one thing he can’t join us in. I mean, besides smoking marijuana.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If only he had a girlfriend….”

  “Not that again. He told me he isn’t interested in looking for a girlfriend right now.”

  She shook her head. “Jill was definitely a mistake. She probably scared him off women. Scott wasn’t as drunk as he said he was that night. I know.”

  “He’s shy around girls.”

  “Not around me.”

  “Well, you’re different. How many other girls are there around here who can discuss Dostoevski with him? How many girls actually enjoy watching the movies of Bergman and Kurosawa?” She and Scott sometimes went out to the movies together at my request, though Christine had been a little reluctant at first. I’d told her she didn’t need my “permission” to go out with a mutual friend.

  “If he weren’t so shy, he might find plenty of girls who share his interests. In his creative writing classes, for instance.”

  “Those literary girls can be really neurotic. I’ve met a few of them.”

  She seemed to be musing on something before she replied. “But you say he’s not looking for a girlfriend right now. Do you think he might be gay?”

  “Of course not!” I was almost offended. “There’s nothing wrong with Scott. He’s as straight as they come.”

  “Then you would think he’d like to find someone to have sex with—if he’s anywhere near as horny as you.”

  I snorted, then turned serious. “Christine, I know the reason why Scott is so shy around girls.”

  “Why?”

  “Believe it or not, he’s a virgin. That’s why he got cold feet that night.”

  “Really?” Her look of incredulity gave way to wonder as she said softly, “In a way I guess I knew it all along. He’s a real rarity in this day and age. It somehow makes him seem pure. Not many boys are these days.”

  “But I don’t think he’s happy about it, either. I’m sure if he had a choice, he’d be screwing away like the rest of us. Who wants to be celibate?”

  “There’s a lot worse things than being pure.”

  “Not for a guy. You don’t know how important it is for a guy to sleep with a girl—to know he can
handle it. Until he does, he lives with the fear of possible failure.”

  “Masculine ego.”

  “I know. But that’s the way we’re made. Our sense of self-esteem is directly linked to our sexual performance. With girls it’s probably different, but I’m speaking from a guy’s point of view.”

  “If sex is all he wants, there’s plenty of girls who are looking for the same thing. Check out Erewhon on any Saturday night. If he’s not too picky, he can easily substantiate his precious masculine identity.”

  I paused. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this—”

  “Come on, he’s my friend just as much as yours.”

  “Well, he told me with a serious look on his face that he had this terrible secret.”

  “Yes?”

  “And when I asked him what it was, he said he’s uncircumcised, and he has a terrible complex about it.”

  “Is that all? That seems to be a silly thing to be bothered about.”

  “I know. That’s what I told him. But that’s how he is.”

  “Hmm. If only he knew how little it means to a girl.”

  “Yeah.” A bold thought had entered my head; I debated whether or not I should say it, then went ahead and did so: “I guess the best way for him to find out would be for you to sleep with him, right?”

  “Idiot.”

  “If only you weren’t going with me, you’d be the perfect one for him,” I said. “He really likes you, you know.”

  “Hm.” She turned onto her side, facing away from me and I slipped up against her. I knew this talk was getting her aroused. I’d switched the direction of our talk onto familiar ground—she knew of the excitement we both felt at the way other guys were attracted to her, and of my so-called jealousy of them. At the root of this shared fantasy was the ever-present possibility that she would someday “betray” me with one of them. Now she probably thought my fantasy had been triggered by my jealousy. I stroked her hips, my mind lazy and unfocused. The thought that she was thinking about Scott had aroused me, and I let her know of it by pushing my groin up against her buttocks. By now it had gotten dark, but I wondered if my two watchers across the way could see us now, if they were straining their eyes to see….