Mirrors of Narcissus Read online

  “Did you enjoy the experience?”

  “I really don’t know.” My answer was purposely vague, as I was still wary of the direction of his talk.

  “Well, it’s not unusual. Many men have had homosexual experiences, especially in their adolescence. Not all who do so are gay. I’m happy to see you’re open-minded about it, and are willing to examine your feelings. Many people deliberately suppress the memory of their homosexual experiences. But apparently yours has left you with a healthy curiosity, I take it.”

  “Yeah.”

  He was looking at me as if he expected me to add something more. And the growing silence which fell between us almost begged to be filled with a confession on my part. I was tempted to do so. In my heart, I wanted so much to tell him everything, to unload this secret burden I was carrying, but I didn’t feel brave enough yet.

  Suddenly he changed the subject himself. “Do you remember the painting Peter Cockle was doing of you?”

  “You know Peter?” I was surprised.

  “Of course. He was in my art history class as a freshman. We became quite close. Anyway, he finally finished the painting.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In his studio.”

  I was stunned. “Why did he show it to you when he hasn’t even let me see it?”

  “He just finished it last Friday and was celebrating in Arabian Nights, a gay bar just off-campus. I happened to run into him there and he told me about it. He was quite drunk. That’s probably why he let his guard down. I know he’s usually shy about showing his own work. I must be the only one besides himself who’s seen his Narcissus, since apparently you haven’t seen it yourself. I offered to buy it then and there, but he refuses to part with it. He did offer to loan it to me for a while, though.”

  “And it’s at your house now?”

  “No, not yet. I’ll give you a call, if you like, when I get my hands on it.”

  “I appreciate it. He never let me see it, so I have no idea how I look in it.”

  “Take my word for it, it’s a masterpiece. And, if you want to know the truth of it, one of the most erotic pieces of art I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Why doesn’t he let me see it? He’s acting awfully childish about a mere painting. You’d think he was hoarding a treasure or something.”

  “Well, in a way, maybe he is. For him, this Narcissus is more than just a mere painting. I suspect that the real reason he won’t show it to anyone—even the boy who inspired it—is jealousy.”

  “Jealousy? I don’t get it.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Pygmalion legend?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s a sort of counterpart to the Narcissus legend, maybe even its complementing opposite. Pygmalion was a sculptor, unmarried, a confirmed bachelor. No, he was not gay. He desired women but was just disgusted with the way the women of his day acted. He felt they were lewd, bold, and unchaste. So, in the loneliness of his studio, he created his own ideal woman, a statue of a beautiful young girl so true to life that it seemed to breathe.

  “She represented everything he’d dreamed of in a woman, but had never found in reality. Physically beautiful but at the same time chaste and pure. And because she was a statue, he could gaze at her nudity to his heart’s content. Day by day he grew more and more in love with her. She looked so shy in her nakedness that he adorned her with clothes. Not stopping there, he began making up her face with cosmetics. Soon he was buying her little presents. At night he kissed her before going to bed. Before long, he wasn’t satisfied with mere kisses—he began caressing her. She, of course, received his tribute in chaste, unresisting silence. So delicate did she look that, though she was made of stone, Pygmalion was afraid the strength of his caresses might bruise her.

  “Anyway, his secret love life continued and he was happy. He had the mistress of his dreams in his arms every night; what more could he want? What more? A living woman, of course. So when festival time came—the festival of Venus—he went to the temple of the goddess of love and prayed. He asked Venus to send him a girl just like the one he’d sculpted. In his heart, he’d often prayed for the statue to come to life, but he knew that was too much to ask. However, Venus, seeing that he truly loved the statue, looked favorably upon him. After all, isn’t any kind of love, no matter how grotesque, a tribute to Venus? She granted him his desire.

  “When he went home that night, he kissed the statue as usual, and lo and behold, her cool marble lips seemed to be responding with a warmth he’d never felt before. He ran his hands down her thighs and felt softness there. Overjoyed, he embraced her. Arms so long frozen into a chaste gesture encircled him, she was getting softer and softer in his arms with each new caress. By the time he had kissed her all over, the statue had turned to flesh, she was alive. And she had loved him all along—pining away in loneliness because she was never able to return his love.

  “Well, the story goes on to say they lived happily ever after. She gave birth to a baby girl, and so on. I think it’s one of the few Greek myths which has a happy ending.”

  “Are you saying Peter painted me so he could jerk off to my picture?” I had a vivid mental image of the unattractive artist down on his knees before my painting, caressing himself furiously as he leaned in to kiss it, praying he could be kissing warm flesh instead of dry canvas. Suppressing the real excitement I felt, I mouthed a conventional reaction: “That’s disgusting. That’s the sickest thing I ever heard.”

  “He’s an artist,” Golden said. “What you might see as grotesque is what satisfies him, is what fuels his art. And what’s wrong with ? He’s happy, in a manner of speaking. As a homosexual, society has always made him feel that his love was unnatural, that his desires are sick. So ever since he learned how to draw, he drew beautiful boys. It was the only way he could get what he wanted. It’s easy for you to say it’s sick; you don’t have to resort to substitutes.”

  “Well, neither do you.” I was thinking of the boy I’d seen him with that day.

  “Well, I’m no artist, with an artist’s sensibilities.” He paused, and appeared to be contemplating something for a moment. “On the other hand, although I have no talent for art, music or literature, I am not completely without artistic abilities.”

  “I agree: I don’t think I’ve ever heard more fascinating lectures than yours.”

  “Thank you. But I don’t mean that. I’m talking about something else. I am an artist, but of another kind. My own art is physical—the physical act of sex. For me, it’s an art form just like the others.”

  “Oh?”

  “Why shouldn’t sex be considered an art? It requires just as much aesthetic sense as playing music or writing a novel. And with experience, you can become a master at it.”

  “It is like a dance….”

  “Yes. Whose choreography I’ve made my own personal form of artistic expression…for an audience of one. It’s a craft I’ve perfected with time, to the point where I can play a young man’s body like a musical instrument. I only wish some of my past performances had been preserved for posterity on film so that others can learn from them, as from a textbook. They were works of art.”

  Such brazen confidence, far from putting me off, amused me. Did such braggarts exist in real life? Could he possibly live up to his promise? Or was it merely the come-on he used with all boys?

  I was laughing at his talk, but his eyes were on me all the time, mercilessly measuring me. “Guy, have you ever thought of repeating that experience you had in high school?” he asked.

  I halted in mid-stretch and sat up straight. The suddenness of the question had caught me completely by surprise, and I felt a flush spreading across my face. My nipples felt tight and tense.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I mean, of exploring your feelings vis-à-vis another man. Specifically yours truly.”

  I was suddenly brought back face to
face with the fact that he was gay and I was gay and he found me intensely desirable. A part of me wanted to accept. I knew that sex with him would be different. I could go to bed with him without feeling the sense of competition that I would inevitably have felt with a younger guy. And with Golden, I would feel none of the fear or shame which I usually felt about my own sexuality. He was so understanding, and so much more experienced.

  But I knew I wasn’t ready to think of him in a sexual way. And I still wasn’t sure how much I wanted him to know about me. I had never had openly gay sex—it had always been furtive, secret. Perhaps it was this very furtiveness which, for me, was part of the attraction. Would open gay sex have any enticements for me? And with an older man?

  The answer was no. For now.

  Maybe it was the blunt, straightforward way he’d propositioned me. If he’d been more romantic about it, I might have considered it more seriously. With a sinking feeling I realized that perhaps his previous confession to Christine and me in the student union had been a mere preliminary for this—his proposition. That thought cheapened all that had gone before. Yet I refused to believe he thought of me as an easy pick-up.

  But how to refuse? I knew that if I did, he wouldn’t press the issue.

  Seeing I was troubled, he said lightly:

  “That’s all right. I don’t want you to feel under an obligation.”

  “I’m flattered by your invitation,” I said, “but I really don’t think I’m ready for it right now.” Even as I said it, I felt ridiculously prudish.

  “The offer will always remain open. Just give yourself plenty of time to think it over. And if you do decide you want to, just tell me anytime. Because if you’re curious about gay sex, you couldn’t have a better teacher than me.”

  “Oh?” I looked for a humorous expression on his face, but saw he was quite serious. “I think I’d better finish the rest of my jogging now.” I got up and he did, too.

  “I think I’ve rested enough, myself.”

  “Unfortunately, though, it seems our routes are different, professor.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  I slipped back into my sweatshirt and resumed the interrupted jog. I was glad he couldn’t see how short of breath I was, as my heart was pounding furiously.

  5

  After class on my way up to my room, I checked my mailbox in the lobby out of habit. The mail usually came at about one o’clock every weekday so it should have arrived by now. Scott subscribed to several magazines of a literary nature, and he was eagerly looking forward to the latest edition of one of them. I checked, but it hadn’t come in yet. Instead, there was a postcard for me. It was from Professor Harding, my chemistry teacher. I hadn’t attended his class for several weeks, intending to drop it, and now he was inquiring about my intentions.

  I knew I had to file a petition to drop his class. I’d been putting it off for weeks, and my midterm grade for the class had been an F. Which wasn’t surprising because I hadn’t attended a single class since early in the term, when I’d decided to drop it.

  Without even bothering to go up to my room, I turned around and went straight to the administration office to get the necessary paperwork. Thinking I’d be able to take care of everything there, I was dismayed when the girl behind the counter told me I still had to go to the professor’s office to get his signature. I checked his schedule printed on the postcard. He would be in.

  Professor Harding’s office was in Makra Hall, the science building. When I knocked on his door, his somewhat high-pitched voice said, “Come in.” Heavy-hearted, I entered.

  He was one of those dreary scholars for whom the world outside his special field of study was of no interest. On top of that, he had a sarcastic and spiteful nature, and mean-looking eyes. His nose had a pinched look about it, and his forehead was domed, arrogant in its imperturbability.

  “Well, Mr. Willard, what have we got here?”

  “It’s a petition to drop your class, sir.”

  “Oh?” He accepted the slip of paper and examined it as if he’d never seen one before. “And why, might I ask, are you dropping?” He let the petition fall onto his desk as if he’d lost all interest in it.

  “Well, I’ve discovered that your course is way beyond my level.”

  “Did you have the necessary prerequisites for the class?”

  “Yes. I got a B in high school chemistry.”

  “And I take it you had something of a rude awakening when you learned that college chemistry was a wee bit more challenging than high school chemistry?”

  “Somewhat.” A faint spark of anger leapt into my heart.

  “You were aware, of course, that you are attending one of the most competitive schools in the state? If you weren’t up to the challenge, you shouldn’t have come here in the first place.” He had a maliciously pleased expression on his face as he saw my reaction. “If you’re like most of the freshmen who come here so hopefully in the fall, only to leave so disenchanted before the end of first term, you’re probably more familiar with the inside of a disco than with an open textbook.”

  “Maybe a disco has more to teach me about life than a chemistry lab.” I wanted to smash his self-important face in, but I needed his signature to clear my record.

  “Then maybe you should become a professional dancer.” He looked at my body. “Or a professional whatever.”

  “Will you sign the paper. Please.”

  He looked at me one more time with a smirk, picked up his pen, scrawled on the petition slip and handed it back, then returned to what he was doing as if I’d been dismissed from his thoughts in an instant.

  As I stepped out I heard behind me: “Good luck, Mr. Willard. They tell me that life outside the campus can be every bit as tough as the inside.”

  I took the paper back to the admin office, then went straight to the dorm. I pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and drank it down at a single draft. Despite my anger, I was able to dismiss the smug professor from my thoughts immediately. It was only Scott now who could claim my attention.

  He still hadn’t come back. He’d told me this morning that he was likely to go straight to the library after his last class of the day. I would have liked to go straight to see him but I knew I would only disturb his studies. Instead, I went down the hall to the lounge hoping to kill some time before Scott came back. Frank was the only one in, and he was sitting alone, watching a cop show. I didn’t feel like joining him; from his eyes, he looked stoned.

  “Have you seen Scott around?” I asked, as a way of taking my leave as quickly as possible.

  “No. Anyway, you wouldn’t find him here in the lounge; that guy’s a regular grind.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  He turned his attention back to the TV, watching it blankly, seeing nothing. I went down the hallway to Kruk’s room and knocked on his door. He was always in.

  He looked surprised to see me when he opened his door.

  “Hey, Kruk. What’s up?”

  “Not much.”

  “How about heading down to the rec building with me and shooting some pool? I feel restless today.”

  “Isn’t Scott with you?”

  “No. He’s cramming for a test or something.”

  “I’m not much of one for shooting pool. Would you like to come in and join me?”

  “Sure.” I’d never been inside his room before, only talked to him from his doorway. As he closed the door behind me, I spotted a bottle of brandy on his desk. “I didn’t know you were a drinker, Kruk. I thought you only liked sucking on sugar cubes.”

  “I’m not. Today—is different.”

  “What’s up? You finish your term paper?”

  “It’s my birthday.”

  “Oh.” I felt inexplicably sad at being reminded that people like Kruk, too, had birthdays. The loneliness of the room struck me. Why was Frank, his roommate, down in the lounge? “Well, let’s celebrate. Call the other guys.”

  “No. If you don’t mind. Just us tw
o. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

  “You should have told me beforehand, Kruk.” I opened the bottle while he fetched two glasses. It was cherry brandy, and, when I tasted it, was a bit too sweet for me, but I pretended to drink it with gusto. “Happy birthday, Kruk. How does it feel to be of legal age now?”

  “No different,” he laughed. “Besides, the legal age doesn’t seem to matter for anything these days.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “You look a little bit preoccupied today, Guy. Is something the matter?”

  “Me? No. I’ve just come back from dropping a class I was failing. That should be cause for celebration. I guess.”

  “What class was that?”

  “Chemistry.”

  “You should have come to me. I would have tutored you, Guy.”

  “I know. I just seem busy with so many other things these days. Have another drink, Kruk. Let’s forget our troubles.” I poured for him.

  He took a sip of his brandy; he drank it as if he were taking medicine. Indeed, his face became more and more blotched-looking as he drank, with bright red spots appearing on his forehead and cheeks. I would have bet anything that this was the first time he’d gotten drunk. I urged more brandy onto him and he drank it without protest.

  “Tell me something, Kruk,” I said, as a blissful numbness began to steal over me. “Have you ever been in love?”

  He looked startled. “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Well…of course. Gee, I guess everybody’s been in love.”

  “If you don’t mind my prying, who was she?”

  After an initial hesitation, he began to tell me of his love life. As I listened, I grew more and more saddened at the unfairness of things. Kruk was a gentle and sensitive soul, just unlucky to be born unattractive. Ever since junior high school and all through high school, he’d nursed a secret crush on the school beauty. In all the time he’d known her, he’d never said a single word to her, though they shared several classes. He had only watched her from afar, content to worship her hopelessly, without the faintest expectation of ever revealing his feelings to her.