Mirrors of Narcissus (15 page)

I thought of Scott. Now, even as I was touching Christine, I was thinking of him. He was between Christine and me, the one who’d excited both of us; and I knew Christine was thinking of him now, too, after I’d prodded her to embroider her fantasy.

I whispered into her ear: “You’re beautiful, Justine.” A tremor went through her. “Justine.” Another tremor.

“Don’t, Guy, don’t,” she whispered.

“Call me Scott,” I said.

“Scott….”

My head swam at the sound of his name on her lips. I slipped my hand up under her T-shirt. “You are so depraved, girl, so depraved.”

“Yes,” she whispered throatily.

“It would be so easy….”

“Hmm?”

“For you to have Scott. Why couldn’t you go with both of us?”

“What?”

“Have a three-way relationship. That would be ideal.”

She stopped. And then backed away a little so she could look at me. “What are you saying?”

“I was just—”

“Do you realize what you’re saying?” She rolled away from me and got up.

“Christine?”

“Guy, that is disgusting. Do you know what an insult that is? Do you?” In her eyes was a flash of tears.

Ashamed at the shock I’d caused, I quickly blamed it on the pot. “It was only a fantasy, Christine. And I’m high. Maybe I don’t know what I’m saying. My mind must be skipping a couple of grooves. It’s just a sexual turn-on to think of a three-way, that’s all.”

She gazed distractedly at the wall for a while without speaking.

“Chrissie, I was just embroidering on our fantasy. Scott would never be able to do such a thing anyway. He’s too old-fashioned.”

“Well, maybe I am, too. A little too old-fashioned for you, it looks like.”

“Chrissie.”

She said nothing for a while. Then, as if she’d been waiting for the right moment to speak, she said, “Guy, is there someone else?”

“What?” The question caught me by surprise. I looked at her, hoping my shock didn’t register on my face. “Someone else? No, of course not. Why do you say that?”

“You wouldn’t have said what you just did if you still cared for me.”

“You know me. I’m always spinning out crazy scenarios to spice up things.”

“It’s not only that. I’ve sensed it for some time. You seem a little distant recently.”

It was true. I hadn’t been paying as much attention to her lately as I had in the early days. Since my discovery of Nightworld, there were more and more evenings when I told her I was too busy to see her. We still met about two or three times a week, but it was different. Our sex life had undergone a subtle sea-change; it didn’t satisfy me as it had before, and she probably sensed it.

“Are you trying to push me off onto Scott? Is that it? You’re tired of me and want to break up?”

“No, Christine, no!” This was the first time I’d seen her like this, the first “scene” we’d had, and it pained me to see her so troubled. And yet, at the same time, it reduced her in my eyes to just another girl mouthing standard phrases. With her suspicious query, she’d lost her special individuality, all that made her uniquely Christine. I was vaguely let down. However, my feelings for her remained tender; and I knew I still needed her. For me, she represented the healthy, accepted daytime world, the necessary counterbalance to that troubled underside represented by Nightworld and my love for Scott. Right now, for my own sanity and well-being, I needed both.

When she spoke next, her voice had gone quite quiet. “If there is someone else, Guy, I’d rather know about it now than find out later on my own.”

I tried to laugh it off. “Believe me, Christine, there’s nothing to worry about. I don’t know why you’re turning so suspicious all of a sudden, but as far as I’m concerned, everything’s still the same between us. There is no one else. Will you trust me on this?”

She stared down at the floor for a long time, then looked up straight into my eyes. “I guess I’ll have to, Guy.”

“Please. Because it’s the truth.”

I thought of the way she’d whispered Scott’s name and felt a sudden throb of emotion, whether at remorse for mentally betraying her, or for my love of Scott, I couldn’t say. I held my arms open and she flowed into them, we melted into each other in the tenderest moment we’d shared since we first started going with each other.

4

The morning was so beautiful, and I felt in such a good mood that I decided to do some jogging. The sky above was the perfect shade of blue, the temperature just the right coolness. In my sweat suit, I kept up a good pace through the park.

I cut along University Avenue heading toward the bay. There was very little traffic at this hour of the morning, vehicular or pedestrian, and my jogging was going smoothly. At a red light I jogged in place waiting for the green. There was a church facing the intersection on the opposite corner, and apparently the service had just ended; the minister was standing at the door having a few last words with individual members of the congregation as they were leaving.

“Guy, wait up.”

I turned around. Someone else in a sweat suit was jogging up the sidewalk, and as he came up alongside me, I recognized Professor Golden.

“Good morning,” he said. He was puffing a little, but seemed to be in very good shape. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. I’d be honored.”

The light changed and we continued jogging together. To his credit, the professor didn’t look too ridiculous, as so many middle-aged joggers do. It was obvious that he was, unlike me, a regular jogger. He kept up quite a good pace, and his form was excellent. I would have to be careful not to show how winded I was.

We reached the bayside park, cut through it and took the path along the water. On our right was the park itself, where people were walking their dogs or strolling. It was peaceful. On our left was the bay, where we could see ships at anchor. Some sailboats glided silently over the choppy waves, the people on them bright splashes of color.

At the end of the path we came to a locked gate. Having no alternative, we turned around and headed back to the park. As we approached it, we slowed down, and Golden suggested we sit down for a little while. I was glad he’d suggested it, as I was secretly getting quite winded.

We found a nice spot beneath some trees from where we could look out over the water.

“How is Christine?” Golden asked, wiping his face and head with the small hand towel he’d had around his neck.

“Fine. She’s working this morning. Part-time job at a drug counseling center.”

“Lovely girl. Very intelligent. I was quite impressed with her.”

“Yes, I remember.” I felt vaguely irritated at the way he kept harping on Christine’s virtues when I knew he was really interested only in me.

“She seems to be very open-minded about homosexuality. Seemed quite interested in it, actually.”

“She’s a psych major, so I guess it’s in her field.”

“Meaning you think homosexuality is a psychological disease?”

“Oh, no. Of course not.”

I was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. I unzipped my sweatshirt. My running had brought out a sweat, and an odor like musky, just-cut grass lingered hotly about my skin. It was a smell I’d always found very sexy—it reminded me of the boys’ locker room after football practice. As I pulled my sweatshirt off and laid it on the ground, Golden looked away and pretended to be absorbed in the sight of the sailboats out on the bay. I knew he was feeling self-conscious about my body. I surreptitiously brought my nose down to my armpit and breathed in its enticing tang.

A thin film of sweat encased my arms, causing a faint, glinting sheen to hover about the surface of the skin. My sleeveless T-shirt was drenched and clinging to my torso, and as his glance flicked past my chest I actually felt a tightening sensation in my nipples. The dumbbells I worked out with every night in front of my mirror had filled out my chest with a solid plate of muscle, making it look as if a pair of smooth shields was thrusting out against my wet cotton T-shirt.

When I looked up I saw his eyes quickly dart away. He’d been eyeing the tiny spray of golden-brown hairs which peeped from under my armpit. At this moment, I felt we were no longer professor and student. He was merely an older man who was attracted by my youth. Feeling a surge of power flow into my tired muscles, I leaned backwards, resting my weight on my elbows, and closed my eyes. I was in a languorous mood and didn’t care what happened. To relieve my muscles I arched my back and stretched, then began rubbing my hand lightly over my stomach, bringing it gradually up to my chest in languid, circular motions. I was well aware that I was putting on a show, provoking the older man. For me, it was a sort of a revenge, to punish him for his pretense of interest in Christine.

He was old enough to be my father, yet I found him strangely attractive. Occasionally, when I thought about him, my feelings for him were distinctly sexual—perhaps inevitable, given his intelligence and strong character. I’d always been drawn to dominant types. Though he was past his prime as far as looks were concerned, his personality almost made physical attractiveness seem unimportant. And there was the seductive thought of his power—he was a full professor while I was just a freshman boy.

He was silent for a minute, and seemed to be thinking about what he was going to say, and then went ahead and said it. “You’re not gay, are you?”

“Me? No.” My answer was automatic, almost a reflex action. I was taken aback by the bluntness of the question, though I should have expected it.

He laughed. “You needn’t look so offended. I was only curious. Do you have a good relationship with Christine?”

“Yes,” I said, then hastened to add, “There’s no trouble there.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t mean to imply that there was. Tell me, Guy, may I ask you an even more personal question?”

“Sure.” I was afraid I knew what he’d ask, and braced myself for it.

“Have you ever had a sexual experience with another man?”

“Well….”

“Come on, don’t be shy. We’re both adults here. Nothing you say will be repeated. Trust me.”

I knew I could trust him completely. I was only wondering how much I should tell him. I decided that my adventures in Nightworld would be a little too much. I thought of Mark Warren, the boy I’d had an experience with back in high school. I nodded. “Yes. Once. With a friend in high school.”

“And what did you think of it?”

“I guess I was a little ashamed of myself. Because I never saw him again.”

“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.”