Mirrors of Narcissus Read online

  Since coming to college and discovering the Spenser Library, I’d been on the lookout for any more books dealing with homosexuality. I seemed to have a built-in radar for zeroing in on them. Something in a title would alert me, and I would pull the book out and scan the dust jacket. If the blurbs contained words like “forbidden love,” “illicit passions,” “underground,” “secret,” “daring,” “previously banned,” “taboo subject,” or “unexpurgated,” I knew I was on the right track.

  There were so few other people using this section of the library that it felt like my own personal library. In the quiet, little-used stacks I could roam at my ease. In the evenings I would choose one of the many comfortable leather armchairs located in hidden nooks and crannies of the labyrinthine aisles. With a small table and reading lamp beside me, I devoured books whose titles—The Immoralist, Confessions of a Mask, Our Lady of the Flowers, The City and the Pillar, Cities of the Night–gave no idea of the inflammatory material contained within them. I would never have dared to check them out and read them back at the dorm, but it was enough for me to have this secret retreat.

  My excitement at reading these books was only eclipsed by the thought that I knew there were others in school besides me who liked them. Unlike the other libraries on campus, which had computerized their check-out systems, this library still used the old system. Anyone who wanted to borrow a book had to write his name and telephone number on an old-fashioned check-out card.

  Whenever I discovered a gay book, I always scanned the list of people who’d checked it out, hoping to find someone I knew. One of the names which I frequently encountered was an “H. Golden,” who always seemed to be there before me. I wondered who he could be. It was obvious we shared the same interest, and I began to expect to find his name on the card whenever I opened a book which dealt with a gay theme. In fact, if his clear, distinctive signature jumped out at me, I would feel as if I’d received his recommendation, his stamp of approval.

  Over the months, I had built up my own picture of him. From the sound of his name I imagined a golden young boy, athletic and blond and beautiful, who agonized over the fact that he was all alone with his secret, just as I was. I dreamed of meeting him.

  I’d copied his telephone number from a check-out card and had been keeping it in my wallet with the half-formed intention of giving him a ring sometime. I had no idea what I wanted to say to him. All I knew was that he was probably gay—and the fact that I knew the name of at least one gay out there gave me a sense of security: I was not alone.

  I located the copy of The City and the Pillar by Gore Vidal which I had been reading for the past several days, and sat down in my usual armchair. But for some reason I couldn’t lose myself in the story. I kept thinking about what Kruk had told me earlier.

  There was a thief in the dorm. I imagined him—whoever he was—sneaking into other boys’ rooms stealthily opening drawers, pocketing valuables, brazenly assuming ownership of a friend’s possession, touching, caressing his property. In a manner which I couldn’t quite understand, there was something provocatively sexual about the thought. For me, anything secretive immediately assumed an erotic aspect. Perhaps because the nature of my own sexual needs had forced me to keep them secret from others, secrecy itself had become part of the landscape of my desire.

  I shut the book and put it away, then headed for what was probably the least frequented part of the library, the section containing books on health and fitness. There was a particular book I was after, and I only hoped it hadn’t been checked out. To my relief, I found it in its usual place on the top shelf, in a corner set aside for oversized books.

  It was the autobiography of a Swedish bodybuilder whom I’d idolized as a boy. He had been the one who’d sparked my interest in training my body. In high school I’d bought several of his books on weightlifting and had religiously followed the regimen he’d set down—the bench presses, snatches, and jerks with which he had developed his own body. Every day I’d drunk the “stamina drink” he’d recommended—bananas, milk, and honey whipped up into a protein-filled milkshake. To my delight, I’d watched my body fill out and harden with muscles, but it had never approached the ideal masculine form which he represented for me.

  He was my god.

  I began flipping through the book.

  Sectioned among the pages of text were plates of the most exquisite photographs. He had the body of a classical Greek statue. Unlike many professional weight lifters, his muscles didn’t bulge to unsightly proportions, nor did he wax and oil his skin till it gleamed like metal. And it wasn’t overly tanned, as was the skin of most bodybuilders in muscle magazines. His skin had a completely natural tone, though he did depilate most of his body hair.

  All his muscles—from his shoulders and chest, to his thighs and calves—were perfectly proportioned. And because he was tall enough, the large muscles didn’t make him look too top-heavy, as often happened with shorter men.

  In a skimpy black bikini, he flexed on a beach, the sea breeze ruffling his hair slightly, bits of sand clinging to his chest and belly. The clean curves of his pectorals made his chest look like the twin shields of a refined, flawless body armor, and the tight abdominal muscles below them were a firm, compact plate on which I spotted tiny hairs glinting in the sunlight. His shoulders were so fully muscled that the line from his neck to shoulder was a steep slope.

  His face, with its classical Nordic lines—a steep brow, high cheekbones, a firm jawline, and full, sensuous lips—was the face of a warrior-hero, a marauding Viking sacking villages, leaving them in smoking ruins, spear in hand, his long, flowing, golden hair streaming behind him, his blue eyes glinting without the slightest trace of mercy, his lips curled back in disdainful superiority.

  I wondered how many other boys had stood here flipping through this book. It looked well-thumbed. And I doubted if all those who gazed at the pictures were gay, either. But surely these pictures would be enough to turn a straight boy queer.

  I looked around again, and listened. For all I knew, I was the only person on the entire floor. The ripping sound could barely be heard as I excised a page from the book. Folding it once, I slipped it into the pages of another book I was carrying.

  The men’s room was located at the far corner near the elevator. The restrooms in this library were quite spacious and well-ventilated. Inside, there were three stalls enclosed within wooden partitions painted a dark green, with a six- or eight-inch gap between their lower end and the floor. A quick glance assured me that none of the stalls was occupied.

  I selected the one farthest from the door, entered, shut the door behind me.

  I lowered the seat and sat down on it, then opened the book on my lap, pulled out the stolen page and unfolded it. Holding it out before me, I gazed at it with a greedy hunger I would never have dared to reveal out there.

  It was my favorite picture. He was standing in front of some gym equipment flexing his biceps which bulged sexily, riveting my attention by their sheer bulk. He was wearing a skimpy sleeveless runner’s shirt which was stretched so tightly over his expanded chest that I could easily see his nipples under them, well-defined, round as quarters, and a healthy pink in color. Tiny wisps of underarm hair peeped out from under his armpit.

  I felt a tremor run through me.

  With my free hand I undid my jeans and, lifting my hips slightly, hooked my thumbs under the elastic waistband of my undershorts and pulled down, until my jeans were down to my knees. As my penis was freed, it flipped up and slapped solidly against my belly, pungent with the sexy aroma of semen.

  The glans was so swollen that it was purplish, and gave off a slight glow, as if lit up from within like a dark bulb. Its moistness made it look like some kind of ripe fruit, a juicy plum ready to burst from its skin. The solid brown shaft supporting it was enwrapped with pulsing veins, throbbing to the beat of my excitement.

  Normally, I didn’t like to masturbate in my dorm. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the privacy
there—I could easily do it in bed at night, or in the shower, as I knew the others did. But somehow, I felt more comfortable doing it in here where I was an anonymous student.

  And I wasn’t the only one who availed himself of the privacy afforded by the stall. There was evidence all around me that others were attracted to the same purpose. Crude drawings of naked women showing their genitals covered the walls (which were regularly painted over by the maintenance staff.) Sometimes I would find, tucked away behind the toilet paper dispenser, a folded-up page from a men’s magazine displaying a picture of a naked woman with her legs spread magnanimously open.

  Such evidence of universal lust gave me a sense of camaraderie with those other boys. As I pictured them sitting on this very same toilet seat, stroking themselves for all they were worth, one ear cocked for the sound of anyone coming in, I felt my own excitement augmented. It was as if I’d joined them, was one of their company, and doing it in rhythm with them.

  I concentrated upon the picture. I felt like a humble worshipper offering my devotions to a god who didn’t deign to look upon me, who exacted the most humiliating postures of abasement for the supreme privilege of looking upon him. Here in this toilet stall, my shrine dedicated to him, I was figuratively upon my knees, prostrated before him—and he merely smiled blandly, as if it were all his due…. I was his most worshipful servant.

  My slow, elaborate caresses gradually became intensely focused upon their goal, and the rhythm accelerated into the steady, familiar beat of the final sprint. There was a slight slapping sound as the heel of my hand hit repeatedly against my groin, but the restroom was empty and I didn’t worry.

  I never let my eyes leave the face and body of my idol by as much as a fraction.

  And then I heard the door to the men’s room open.

  In no time at all, I’d folded up the picture into a tiny square and stuffed it behind the toilet paper dispenser. With my heart pounding, and my breath held, I waited to discover what the other was doing. He seemed to be standing before the sink. I heard the water being turned on, running for a while, then turned off. There was a silence, during which I could only assume that he was standing before the mirror looking at himself.

  A minute passed. A long minute passed. And then he was gone, out the door.

  For a while I just sat there trying to regain my calm.

  I didn’t feel like continuing. My mood had been shattered. Leaving the picture where it was, I pulled my pants up and hurriedly left the stall. Perhaps another lonely gay student might find it there and be able to make use of it.

  I made my way down the stairs to the first floor, and outside the library, to fresh air. Beside the shrubs which circled the building, I stood for a while, still a little shaken. I didn’t feel like heading back to the dorm.

  I thought about the photo I’d left in the stall and wondered if it would be there again when I went back. I doubted it. Now that I realized I might never see it again, I regretted my hasty decision. Still, it would have been unsafe to have it on me. What were the chances that another gay student would come across it? Most likely a straight boy would pull it out, and in his disappointment, flush it down the toilet. I almost started to go back up and retrieve it, but the risk was too great.

  I wondered how many others there were like me, lonely, unhappy, scared, having to resort to hasty, hidden pleasures for their only real satisfaction? I thought again of the “H. Golden” who liked to check out gay books.

  About twenty feet away from me, tucked away among the shrubs which surrounded the library, was a little-used telephone booth. The hedge surrounding the library had been allowed to grow around it, making it almost invisible from the footpath. I decided on the spur of the moment to try calling “H. Golden” from here. There was no one about; I would have all the privacy I wanted.

  From my wallet I pulled out the little slip of paper with his number on it and dialed.

  “Hello?” The voice which answered the phone sounded much deeper and richer than I’d expected. My image of him modulated into that of an older man. I checked my impulse to hang up and managed to ask:

  “Is this H. Golden?”

  “Yes. Who is calling?”

  “My name is Tim Glade,” I said, ready with a false name.

  “I don’t recognize the name. Have we met?”

  “No, never.”

  “Are you a student?”

  “Yeah.”

  I’d called him half expecting him to hang up when he realized it was only a prank call, but he didn’t seem upset by my unsolicited intrusion. He even sounded a little worried for me. His straightforward questions disarmed me, and I found myself replying openly.

  “How long have you been in school?” he asked.

  “I’m a freshman.”

  “Why are you calling me, Tim?”

  I hesitated. In fact, I didn’t know myself exactly why I’d suddenly decided to call him. Could he understand that I only felt a deep-rooted desire to connect to someone, anyone, anywhere? Or did that sound too far-fetched?

  There was a long pause during which I was sure he would hang up, but he remained on the line, listening intently, I was sure, at the other end. Finally I managed to ask:

  “Are you gay?”

  There was the slightest pause before he answered. “Yes. Are you?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re being very evasive. How did you get my number?”

  “A friend.”

  “Can you tell me his name?”

  There was someone coming up the footpath. “Look, I’ll call you again, okay?”

  “Sure. Maybe you can give me your number?”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Bye, now.”

  I stepped out of the booth just as a girl turned off the footpath. She was coming my way, and smiled as she recognized me.

  “They told me I’d find you here,” she said. It was Christine, my girlfriend.

  3

  Christine lived in an apartment just off campus, in a picturesque, tree-shaded neighborhood of Victorian style homes with bay windows out front and terraces in the back. It was the sort of place which usually appeared in movies about college life. I was never very comfortable there, and infinitely preferred the messy disorder of my dorm. Christine couldn’t understand my preference.

  We were in her room which she shared with a friend named Nancy. All during our walk here, she’d been dying to tell me something, and only now allowed herself to open up about it. Nancy was out and we had the place to ourselves.

  “You won’t believe what happened to me today,” she said. She was carefully pouring hot water from the kettle into a tea strainer placed over a cup; her latest fad was experimenting with various exotic teas which she ordered from a specialty shop across the bay.

  “What happened?” I said. “You seem a little upset.”

  “I am.” She went on to tell me how her English professor had drawn her aside after class and whispered: “If you dress like that again for next class, I’ll give you an A on the midterm.” Christine wasn’t wearing a bra today, and the low neckline her blouse had apparently, when she was bent down taking notes at her desk, allowed the professor a generous glimpse of her breasts. She always sat in the first row quite close to the lectern.

  “Damn,” I said. “That was pretty cheeky of him.”

  “I think it’s disgusting, is what I think.” Yet her indignation could barely conceal the pleasure she got from reporting it. “I couldn’t believe it. This school has such high academic standards, too. He doesn’t have the least interest in my academic abilities. All I am for him is a pair of tits. And I’m not even well-endowed in that department, either.”

  “So, are you going to do it?” I asked.

  “Are you crazy? You’re suggesting I should take him up on it?”

  “Sure.”

  She looked at me, trying to judge how ser
ious I was. As I imagined the professor peering surreptitiously down her blouse, getting excited by a mere glimpse of her breasts, I said: “If he finds you sexually attractive, why not give him a little pleasure? It costs you nothing. And you get an A out of it.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. If you know you have a sure A in English, you can spend that much more time studying for your other tests. If it were me, I know I’d do it.”

  “I thought you’d be jealous. I mean, another man seeing my breasts.”

  “I am jealous.”

  In fact, the thought that other men found her attractive only excited me. Whenever we entered a room together, all the men’s eyes would be on her. I would secretly enjoy the way they stared at her, and the way their eyes traveled up and down her body.

  Far from being upset by these attentions, I made efforts to encourage them. Though Christine would have preferred to wear sloppy T-shirts and jeans, it was I who constantly urged her to wear more provocative clothes: scanty short-shorts, tank tops, miniskirts, and low-cut camisoles. It was as if she were my doll and I was dressing her up to please the guys. And my pleasure in it was ignited by a process of reflection: the other boys’ excitement excited me. I imagined that all the male attention she drew to her stuck to the surface of her skin, so that when I caressed her, I was caressing those male glances.

  For her part, she thought it was my jealousy which stimulated me, so she made efforts to fan that jealousy. She never missed a chance to report being stared at by boys, or being propositioned by them. She knew these tales only excited me by letting me know just how attractive she was to other guys. Perhaps she secretly sensed that if she didn’t have the power to attract them, I wouldn’t have been as drawn to her as I was.

  She had the androgynous kind of beauty which I’ve found most attractive in women. Her body was lithe, long-limbed, and athletic-looking, and she walked with a slightly over-exuberant bounce which made her hair swing from side to side. At my request, she’d cut her hair short; her thick blond hair came straight down to her eyebrows, and was cut short all around, making it look as if she were wearing a shiny helmet. Her eyes were green with glints of gold in them, and were slightly slanted. This, combined with her high cheekbones, made her look quite exotic.