CharmedFan28
JUB Addict
That was a great end to the chapter! I am glad Ben is making amends. I am also glad Swann stood up for himself. Excellent writing and I look forward to more soon! I would have read sooner but I didn’t realise that you posted.
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Bedrooms and Bath Houses
- Thread starter ChrisGibson
- Start date
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
Chapter Sixteen
Junior year at Saint Francis, Douglass Merrin thought he would find solace in the choir.
If you know the notes to sing, you can sing most anything!
Up until eighth grade he had been part of a wonderful choir. He had even soloed in church. Douglass Merrin was thrilled by the sound of his own voice, surprised by the notes it could hit, still thin and high when he wished it. Amazed by the waves he rode on when his voice joined the voices of others.
Now, as an adult, he realized that the cigarettes, along with the smoking of pot and other drugs had put a limit on the winged voice he’d once had and, as he filled another bowl and looked at Michael Buren, curled sleeping naked and brown, compact and beautiful beside him, he could not reminisce without missing those days when he was one of the only boys in the choir at Christ the King.
Once a year the choir of Christ the King joined all the other parochial schools choirs in town and became the Honors Choir who gave, as he remembered, an amazing one night performance. He always wished they’d done it more. That last year he pretended to be a bass so he could sing with Owen and the other boys, and he always regretted being separated from his own choir, all alto girls, his natural voice range, and among them the soft eyed, long eyed lashed boy, Andy. He didn’t understand much about his feelings then, just that he would have preferred the company of his girls and the gentle Andy to Owen and the other boys he practiced with all day. The lesson he learned: always be yourself.
Saint Francis’s choir was nothing like the glorious honors choir he had known. It was full of croaking not quite basses and unsatisfying tenors and the music the director chose was bad. When he’d thought of joining, Swann had said, “You’;ll be disappointed.” And he was. At the end of his sophomore year he had talked to Mr. Miller, the smallish, dark haired music teacher who looked a lot like a student.
“You know, Doug, I’m actually trying to do some things with the choir, make it better, press it a little further,” he said. “You might be surprised by what you see if you stick with us.”
The Doug of sophomore year, high on a relationship with Joe, and protected by his cousin, surrounded with the family of cousin’s friends, might have turned a deaf ear to that, but the Doug of junior year, who had none of that, who found life suddenly lonely and lacking in point, was willing to enter into Max Miller’s quest for a better choir.
Now classical music came bursting out of Max Miller’s classroom, and when he wasn’t going on, at great depth, about the wonder of Brahms or Beethoven, or giving lectures on Gregorian and Byzantine chant, there was singing, and more and more this is what the choir lessons were as well.
“And now let’s try a little of that.”
“A little of what?” Shomari Jackson said.
“A little Gregorian chant.”
“I don’t think we can do that,” Vinnie shook his head.
“If those tenth century monks could do it. You can do it.”
And the odd thing was, when the music became more challenging, more boys came into the choir. Max went to Abbot Prynne with a request, and before the end of the month, there were boys from the K through 8 school and girls from Saint Anne’s and the choir began to sound something like a choir should.
One night, after dinner, when Max should have been well home, and all members of the choir as well, they came quiet as mice into the darkened chapel and stood at the altar before the retrochoir, and as the monks were finishing Compline, the boys burst out, singing
All praise to You, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light.
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Beneath the shelter of Your wings!
It was Thomas Tallis, and they’d practiced for three weeks along with much of his canon, The joy, the soaring power he hadn’t experienced for years, was back. He thrilled at their voices reaching the ceiling and coming back to them. The cynical Doug was shaken at the joy in the faces of the monks as they finished, the desire to clap that those often austere men refrained from.
From then on, it didn’t seem pathetic that he was always in Max Miller’s classroom. There was music to be performed, and Max always had something to teach.
“Thomas Tallis was a devout Catholic, and he wrote music for the Church,” Max said, “but then when Henry the Eight made the Church of England separate from the Catholic Church, he had to start writing his music in a slightly different way, and then when Henry died and his son Edward, a real Puritan, came to the throne, he had to change it again, make it completely in English make it straightforward as possible. Make good music, but keep his head. Literally. When Edward died, Mary became Queen and it was Latin again, and then the happy medium with Queen Elizabeth. Through all these reigns he…glorified God and was true to himself, but kept his head by adapting.”
Kept his head by adapting, were the words Doug heard, and ket those I nthe back of his mind.
Sometimes it was Doug, Shomari and Vince who were in the room singing and listening to music with Mr. Miller, and sometimes it was just Doug. If they worked till late, late for students, seven or eight at night, Max would bring food from the Strip or from the town he lived in, forty five minutes away.
“What is this?” Doug said.
“You don’t like it?”
“I like a lot, but I’ve never had it.”
“It’s bulgogi.”
“Bulgogi?”
“Korean beef over rice, with a little bit of vegetables.”
“It’s sweet. A little bit tangy. A little bit soy…soyeee. Not like sweet and sour, but…ummm.” Doug frowned.
“Umami,” Max said. “That earthy taste, kind of smoky, savory, that you get in Asian food. It’s called umami.”
“Umami,” Doug repeated, nodding his head.
“The soy sauce is different.”
“That’s because it’s not soy sauce. Not quite,” Max said.
“It’s Ponzu sauce.”
“Ponzu.”
Doug said, “I like it. “It’s soy sauce, but more sour, more… funky.”
Max laughed and nodded, “It’s definitely funky.”
Once Max took some of them to an Indian restaurant on the Calverton Strip and coached the boys through what they might like.
“Swann always liked Indian,” Doug remembered, “but he never told me what it was he liked.”
“You can’t go wrong on the butter chicken,” Max said. “And the naan. You’ll want plenty of naan, and to try the tandoor chicken.”
Doug went with that and fell in love with a new food, and while he was scooping butter chicken onto naan and rubbing the bread in the sauce, Max said, “Since you’re from Chicago, you could get your family to take you up and down Devon Avenue.”
“Devon?”
“Yes, that’s Little India and you can eat Indian food to your heart’s content. All sorts of food, really.”
Doug did not imagine his parents taking him anywhere, but Swann and Chris, Swann and his other friends, maybe. Definitely.
But the nights Doug loved most were when he had Mr. Miller to himself, when the two of them stayed in the little office off of his classroom. He would get his miserable dinner in the main hall, and sometimes he would stay and eat it. But eventually he was able to leave the hall with it. If Mr. Miller was in his classroom, then he would go to his office and they would listen to music, and Mr. Miller would make strong coffee and they would talk about the future, because the present was, even with music class, not very bearable.
“You thought about schools?”
“Now you sound like my father.”
“Ouch! I don’t mean to. And I wasn’t even doing it in a way to pressure you. I was just curious.”
Doug shook his head.
“I can’t imagine more… of this.”
Now Max shook his head.
“It won’t be more of this. It will be grown ups. And you will be in a grown up world with other curious people. You can stretch yourself.”
“I don’t really kow what I’d do.”
“Douglass, you’re brilliant.”
Doug’s grades weren’t great, but Doug wasn’t someone who needed to be told he was smart, and he also wasn’t someone who believed in false modesty. He merely nodded.
“Doug?” Max asked him.
“Yes.”
“I may be out of line for asking this, but are you gay?”
It was out of line, and jarring, and Doug wasn’t sure how to answer, but Max pressed on.
“Because I am. I had wondered? It must be hard here. I was asking because you’re different and different boys can be,” Max frowned, “different.”
Douglass laughed now and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
Max said, “You’re not the only one. Not at Saint Francis. There are others.”
“I know,” Doug said.
“Oh!”
“I had a boyfriend,” he said. “And my cousin had a boyfriend. A few.”
“Your cousin was Swann Portis?”
“Yes.”
“Bright guy. Yes, well, you’re a bright guy too.”
“They’re all gone,” Doug said. “Gone and left me here.”
“Even the boyfriend?” Max said, pushing away the beginning of Doug’s self pity.
Doug nodded.
“Do you miss sex with him?”
Again, Doug was surprised by the question, but he answered, “Yes.”
Max nodded and sank low in his chair. His foot almost touched Doug’s.
“I understand,” he said.
So Doug said, “Is it hard? For you to be at this school? Or are we just all a bunch of little kids to you?”
“I’m only twenty-four,” Max Miller said, sitting up again and pushing up his glasses.
“You all don’t seem like kids to me at all.”
Junior year at Saint Francis, Douglass Merrin thought he would find solace in the choir.
If you know the notes to sing, you can sing most anything!
Up until eighth grade he had been part of a wonderful choir. He had even soloed in church. Douglass Merrin was thrilled by the sound of his own voice, surprised by the notes it could hit, still thin and high when he wished it. Amazed by the waves he rode on when his voice joined the voices of others.
Now, as an adult, he realized that the cigarettes, along with the smoking of pot and other drugs had put a limit on the winged voice he’d once had and, as he filled another bowl and looked at Michael Buren, curled sleeping naked and brown, compact and beautiful beside him, he could not reminisce without missing those days when he was one of the only boys in the choir at Christ the King.
Once a year the choir of Christ the King joined all the other parochial schools choirs in town and became the Honors Choir who gave, as he remembered, an amazing one night performance. He always wished they’d done it more. That last year he pretended to be a bass so he could sing with Owen and the other boys, and he always regretted being separated from his own choir, all alto girls, his natural voice range, and among them the soft eyed, long eyed lashed boy, Andy. He didn’t understand much about his feelings then, just that he would have preferred the company of his girls and the gentle Andy to Owen and the other boys he practiced with all day. The lesson he learned: always be yourself.
Saint Francis’s choir was nothing like the glorious honors choir he had known. It was full of croaking not quite basses and unsatisfying tenors and the music the director chose was bad. When he’d thought of joining, Swann had said, “You’;ll be disappointed.” And he was. At the end of his sophomore year he had talked to Mr. Miller, the smallish, dark haired music teacher who looked a lot like a student.
“You know, Doug, I’m actually trying to do some things with the choir, make it better, press it a little further,” he said. “You might be surprised by what you see if you stick with us.”
The Doug of sophomore year, high on a relationship with Joe, and protected by his cousin, surrounded with the family of cousin’s friends, might have turned a deaf ear to that, but the Doug of junior year, who had none of that, who found life suddenly lonely and lacking in point, was willing to enter into Max Miller’s quest for a better choir.
Now classical music came bursting out of Max Miller’s classroom, and when he wasn’t going on, at great depth, about the wonder of Brahms or Beethoven, or giving lectures on Gregorian and Byzantine chant, there was singing, and more and more this is what the choir lessons were as well.
“And now let’s try a little of that.”
“A little of what?” Shomari Jackson said.
“A little Gregorian chant.”
“I don’t think we can do that,” Vinnie shook his head.
“If those tenth century monks could do it. You can do it.”
And the odd thing was, when the music became more challenging, more boys came into the choir. Max went to Abbot Prynne with a request, and before the end of the month, there were boys from the K through 8 school and girls from Saint Anne’s and the choir began to sound something like a choir should.
One night, after dinner, when Max should have been well home, and all members of the choir as well, they came quiet as mice into the darkened chapel and stood at the altar before the retrochoir, and as the monks were finishing Compline, the boys burst out, singing
All praise to You, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light.
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Beneath the shelter of Your wings!
It was Thomas Tallis, and they’d practiced for three weeks along with much of his canon, The joy, the soaring power he hadn’t experienced for years, was back. He thrilled at their voices reaching the ceiling and coming back to them. The cynical Doug was shaken at the joy in the faces of the monks as they finished, the desire to clap that those often austere men refrained from.
From then on, it didn’t seem pathetic that he was always in Max Miller’s classroom. There was music to be performed, and Max always had something to teach.
“Thomas Tallis was a devout Catholic, and he wrote music for the Church,” Max said, “but then when Henry the Eight made the Church of England separate from the Catholic Church, he had to start writing his music in a slightly different way, and then when Henry died and his son Edward, a real Puritan, came to the throne, he had to change it again, make it completely in English make it straightforward as possible. Make good music, but keep his head. Literally. When Edward died, Mary became Queen and it was Latin again, and then the happy medium with Queen Elizabeth. Through all these reigns he…glorified God and was true to himself, but kept his head by adapting.”
Kept his head by adapting, were the words Doug heard, and ket those I nthe back of his mind.
Sometimes it was Doug, Shomari and Vince who were in the room singing and listening to music with Mr. Miller, and sometimes it was just Doug. If they worked till late, late for students, seven or eight at night, Max would bring food from the Strip or from the town he lived in, forty five minutes away.
“What is this?” Doug said.
“You don’t like it?”
“I like a lot, but I’ve never had it.”
“It’s bulgogi.”
“Bulgogi?”
“Korean beef over rice, with a little bit of vegetables.”
“It’s sweet. A little bit tangy. A little bit soy…soyeee. Not like sweet and sour, but…ummm.” Doug frowned.
“Umami,” Max said. “That earthy taste, kind of smoky, savory, that you get in Asian food. It’s called umami.”
“Umami,” Doug repeated, nodding his head.
“The soy sauce is different.”
“That’s because it’s not soy sauce. Not quite,” Max said.
“It’s Ponzu sauce.”
“Ponzu.”
Doug said, “I like it. “It’s soy sauce, but more sour, more… funky.”
Max laughed and nodded, “It’s definitely funky.”
Once Max took some of them to an Indian restaurant on the Calverton Strip and coached the boys through what they might like.
“Swann always liked Indian,” Doug remembered, “but he never told me what it was he liked.”
“You can’t go wrong on the butter chicken,” Max said. “And the naan. You’ll want plenty of naan, and to try the tandoor chicken.”
Doug went with that and fell in love with a new food, and while he was scooping butter chicken onto naan and rubbing the bread in the sauce, Max said, “Since you’re from Chicago, you could get your family to take you up and down Devon Avenue.”
“Devon?”
“Yes, that’s Little India and you can eat Indian food to your heart’s content. All sorts of food, really.”
Doug did not imagine his parents taking him anywhere, but Swann and Chris, Swann and his other friends, maybe. Definitely.
But the nights Doug loved most were when he had Mr. Miller to himself, when the two of them stayed in the little office off of his classroom. He would get his miserable dinner in the main hall, and sometimes he would stay and eat it. But eventually he was able to leave the hall with it. If Mr. Miller was in his classroom, then he would go to his office and they would listen to music, and Mr. Miller would make strong coffee and they would talk about the future, because the present was, even with music class, not very bearable.
“You thought about schools?”
“Now you sound like my father.”
“Ouch! I don’t mean to. And I wasn’t even doing it in a way to pressure you. I was just curious.”
Doug shook his head.
“I can’t imagine more… of this.”
Now Max shook his head.
“It won’t be more of this. It will be grown ups. And you will be in a grown up world with other curious people. You can stretch yourself.”
“I don’t really kow what I’d do.”
“Douglass, you’re brilliant.”
Doug’s grades weren’t great, but Doug wasn’t someone who needed to be told he was smart, and he also wasn’t someone who believed in false modesty. He merely nodded.
“Doug?” Max asked him.
“Yes.”
“I may be out of line for asking this, but are you gay?”
It was out of line, and jarring, and Doug wasn’t sure how to answer, but Max pressed on.
“Because I am. I had wondered? It must be hard here. I was asking because you’re different and different boys can be,” Max frowned, “different.”
Douglass laughed now and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
Max said, “You’re not the only one. Not at Saint Francis. There are others.”
“I know,” Doug said.
“Oh!”
“I had a boyfriend,” he said. “And my cousin had a boyfriend. A few.”
“Your cousin was Swann Portis?”
“Yes.”
“Bright guy. Yes, well, you’re a bright guy too.”
“They’re all gone,” Doug said. “Gone and left me here.”
“Even the boyfriend?” Max said, pushing away the beginning of Doug’s self pity.
Doug nodded.
“Do you miss sex with him?”
Again, Doug was surprised by the question, but he answered, “Yes.”
Max nodded and sank low in his chair. His foot almost touched Doug’s.
“I understand,” he said.
So Doug said, “Is it hard? For you to be at this school? Or are we just all a bunch of little kids to you?”
“I’m only twenty-four,” Max Miller said, sitting up again and pushing up his glasses.
“You all don’t seem like kids to me at all.”
CharmedFan28
JUB Addict
That was a great start to the chapter! I was happy to read so much more of Doug in this portion. Excellent writing and I look forward to more soon!
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
This chapter and more of Doug's story have been long coming.
ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
One Thursday, it was definitely a Thursday, Mr. Miller said after practice, “Get cleaned up, we’re going to dinner.”
“Indian? Thai?”
“Wherever you want.”
“Actually, pizza, then.”
“Actually pizza sounds great,” Max said.
Upstairs in the dorms, Doug showered and changed and got his bookbag. It was always with him, and then he met Max, and as the evening was drawing on, they got in his car and drove north, out of Calverton, not onto the Strip, and for a moment Doug was dismayed and then Max said, “we’re going to Monon. You should see my place. Is that alright?”
“Yeah,” Doug relaxed. “Yeah, that’s great.”
Part of him thought how he should have actually told people where he was going, just in case Max Miller killed him. Of course, Max didn’t seem like the type, but then the type never did, and Douglass Merrin assessed the matter. Wasn’t he that vulnerable, all alone teen type that could get abducted?
But even as he thought it, Max’s hand was on his knee, and even as he thought it Doug realized ever since their conversation in the classroom, he’d wanted it there. He opened his legs a little more, and Max’s right hand lazily fell between his legs. His loins twitched, and Doug was getting hard. He took his right hand and slipped it between Max’s legs, and neither of them looked at the other as Max drove.
He drove right into town, into what, by the early night, seemed like a less than amazing neighborhood of sidewalkness streets and one storey white houses. They went right into the house, and in the darkened living room, with the curtains still opened, Max Miller got on his knees and opened Doug’s jeans, pulled down his briefs, and cupping his ass, began to suck him.
Doug swayed in the silent beginning of sex, only the noises of Max’s sucking and groaning interrupting it. He found himself getting harder and harder, large in his teacher’s mouth. There was rustling of clothes and then Max stood up and in the blue light of early evening he was naked, and he undressed Doug who stood before him, and he began to milk his cock as the boy moaned. He reached for something, and now his hand was slick and slippery, and then he pulled Douglass down on top of him, between his legs, and they shuffled together and Doug groaned and he propped himself on his hands and thrust against him. Max turned around, on hands and knees, and guided Doug inside of him, and Doug’s mouth and eyes widened and then, as Max lowered and lowered, together, on the carpeted floor, in the early darkness, they fucked with barely any sound until a startled boy cry came from Doug when he finally came, his penis trapped in Max while he spurted.
He’d almost passed out after the first time. Doug would always wonder how much of him knew what was going to happen and how much of his was a victim, or if victim was even the right word. Certainly the experience wasn’t right. Twenty-four was young, but it was still eight years and a whole college education’s difference. It certainly wasn’t alright for a teacher to ask a student about his sex life, and it certainly wasn’t right for a teacher to take his sixteen year old lonely student home for sex. None of that was right. He couldn’t think of who he’d share this with, but then, there was the thing. Only someone who could not share this would be here. None of that was right.
But fucking Max felt right. The easy access to his hot beautiful body, better formed than Joe, who was just coming out of adolescence, was right. Or at least it felt good. Getting out of that school felt good. How, after they’d done it, Max had taken him into town and they had pizza, and then they’d fucked two more times felt right. The way the seed rocketed up out of his balls and left him sore, the way his cock grew firmer and larger till it ached, and he drove it deep inside of Max as Max groaned under him, felt right. Max’s mouth on him felt right, and so, as Max drove him back home, smelling like sex, still getting hard, still letting Max stroke his cock in the dark, Doug decided that right or wrong, this would go on.
After that it was an established thing. While the rest of life fell apart, Douglass Merrin flung himself into choir, and stayed late in the evenings with Shomari and Vince and sometimes even Mike Buren, who had joined the choir. They toured around the city and around northern Indiana, once even went to Indianapolis. Now and again, when they sang, he could feel his voice match Mike’s, and they looked at each other, the love that had once been between them almost restored.
All things shall perish from under the sky.
Music alone shall live,
Music alone shall live,
Music alone shall live,
Never to die.
They would begin every choir rehearsal like that, and the song was so sad and lonely, and their voices rose and fell with the plaintiveness of it. Doug had a picture of a vast forest, black in the grey light, and the moon was falling from the sky, like a sickle, slowly crashing down, and the sun following, whooshed out as it descended. Then there were stars, then the stars falling one after the other. And after all of this, music still there.
Later, when he was humming the song, Max said, “It’s German.”
“That checks,” Doug said, and Max laughed.
“It’s a folk song,” he said.
“Even the peasants are depressed philosophers in Germany,” Doug said.
Every Thursday, around five o’ clock, Doug would come down to the music room with a bookbag filled with books and clothes and then, just like any student going on a run with the teacher he was apprenticed to, he would follow Mr. Miller to his car, they would climb in, and as the evening set, they would drive to Monon. Somewhere in the middle of the drive, one would unzip the pants of the other and they would stroke each other and then button up in time to get to the house where they would immediately strip and have sex on the living room floor, eventually the bedroom. While Doug lay heaving, on his back Max would get up naked, and go to his record collection, then put on Beethoven or Mozart, Haydn, or an opera. Once he surprised Doug with the Mamas and the Papas. They would sit on the floor or in bed naked for a while, and Max would give him wine, and then they’d dress and go to get dinner. After dinner their was a little sleep, and then fucking for the rest of the night. They woke up early the next morning, naked and splayed across the bed, showered, dressed, and Max brought Doug to school around 7:15. Doug would sneak up through the dormitories and into his room as if he’d been there all night.
As an adult, watching Mike sleep, the early springtime sun shine on his naked body, on his brownish hair, Doug thought, “There’s no way that should have worked.” No one was checking for him. He should never have been able to disappear with a teacher over night. He never wrote any excuses, never really engaged in any subterfuge.
Suddenly he wondered about his uncle, his godfather. Where was Prynne? Strangely absent this whole miserable year. Prynne was never overbearing, but that year he seemed nonexistent. Had he never, not once, on those Thursdays, seen his godchild traipse off at six o’clock in the even with a school teacher, or never knocked on his door and seen he was not there?
“Indian? Thai?”
“Wherever you want.”
“Actually, pizza, then.”
“Actually pizza sounds great,” Max said.
Upstairs in the dorms, Doug showered and changed and got his bookbag. It was always with him, and then he met Max, and as the evening was drawing on, they got in his car and drove north, out of Calverton, not onto the Strip, and for a moment Doug was dismayed and then Max said, “we’re going to Monon. You should see my place. Is that alright?”
“Yeah,” Doug relaxed. “Yeah, that’s great.”
Part of him thought how he should have actually told people where he was going, just in case Max Miller killed him. Of course, Max didn’t seem like the type, but then the type never did, and Douglass Merrin assessed the matter. Wasn’t he that vulnerable, all alone teen type that could get abducted?
But even as he thought it, Max’s hand was on his knee, and even as he thought it Doug realized ever since their conversation in the classroom, he’d wanted it there. He opened his legs a little more, and Max’s right hand lazily fell between his legs. His loins twitched, and Doug was getting hard. He took his right hand and slipped it between Max’s legs, and neither of them looked at the other as Max drove.
He drove right into town, into what, by the early night, seemed like a less than amazing neighborhood of sidewalkness streets and one storey white houses. They went right into the house, and in the darkened living room, with the curtains still opened, Max Miller got on his knees and opened Doug’s jeans, pulled down his briefs, and cupping his ass, began to suck him.
Doug swayed in the silent beginning of sex, only the noises of Max’s sucking and groaning interrupting it. He found himself getting harder and harder, large in his teacher’s mouth. There was rustling of clothes and then Max stood up and in the blue light of early evening he was naked, and he undressed Doug who stood before him, and he began to milk his cock as the boy moaned. He reached for something, and now his hand was slick and slippery, and then he pulled Douglass down on top of him, between his legs, and they shuffled together and Doug groaned and he propped himself on his hands and thrust against him. Max turned around, on hands and knees, and guided Doug inside of him, and Doug’s mouth and eyes widened and then, as Max lowered and lowered, together, on the carpeted floor, in the early darkness, they fucked with barely any sound until a startled boy cry came from Doug when he finally came, his penis trapped in Max while he spurted.
He’d almost passed out after the first time. Doug would always wonder how much of him knew what was going to happen and how much of his was a victim, or if victim was even the right word. Certainly the experience wasn’t right. Twenty-four was young, but it was still eight years and a whole college education’s difference. It certainly wasn’t alright for a teacher to ask a student about his sex life, and it certainly wasn’t right for a teacher to take his sixteen year old lonely student home for sex. None of that was right. He couldn’t think of who he’d share this with, but then, there was the thing. Only someone who could not share this would be here. None of that was right.
But fucking Max felt right. The easy access to his hot beautiful body, better formed than Joe, who was just coming out of adolescence, was right. Or at least it felt good. Getting out of that school felt good. How, after they’d done it, Max had taken him into town and they had pizza, and then they’d fucked two more times felt right. The way the seed rocketed up out of his balls and left him sore, the way his cock grew firmer and larger till it ached, and he drove it deep inside of Max as Max groaned under him, felt right. Max’s mouth on him felt right, and so, as Max drove him back home, smelling like sex, still getting hard, still letting Max stroke his cock in the dark, Doug decided that right or wrong, this would go on.
After that it was an established thing. While the rest of life fell apart, Douglass Merrin flung himself into choir, and stayed late in the evenings with Shomari and Vince and sometimes even Mike Buren, who had joined the choir. They toured around the city and around northern Indiana, once even went to Indianapolis. Now and again, when they sang, he could feel his voice match Mike’s, and they looked at each other, the love that had once been between them almost restored.
All things shall perish from under the sky.
Music alone shall live,
Music alone shall live,
Music alone shall live,
Never to die.
They would begin every choir rehearsal like that, and the song was so sad and lonely, and their voices rose and fell with the plaintiveness of it. Doug had a picture of a vast forest, black in the grey light, and the moon was falling from the sky, like a sickle, slowly crashing down, and the sun following, whooshed out as it descended. Then there were stars, then the stars falling one after the other. And after all of this, music still there.
Later, when he was humming the song, Max said, “It’s German.”
“That checks,” Doug said, and Max laughed.
“It’s a folk song,” he said.
“Even the peasants are depressed philosophers in Germany,” Doug said.
Every Thursday, around five o’ clock, Doug would come down to the music room with a bookbag filled with books and clothes and then, just like any student going on a run with the teacher he was apprenticed to, he would follow Mr. Miller to his car, they would climb in, and as the evening set, they would drive to Monon. Somewhere in the middle of the drive, one would unzip the pants of the other and they would stroke each other and then button up in time to get to the house where they would immediately strip and have sex on the living room floor, eventually the bedroom. While Doug lay heaving, on his back Max would get up naked, and go to his record collection, then put on Beethoven or Mozart, Haydn, or an opera. Once he surprised Doug with the Mamas and the Papas. They would sit on the floor or in bed naked for a while, and Max would give him wine, and then they’d dress and go to get dinner. After dinner their was a little sleep, and then fucking for the rest of the night. They woke up early the next morning, naked and splayed across the bed, showered, dressed, and Max brought Doug to school around 7:15. Doug would sneak up through the dormitories and into his room as if he’d been there all night.
As an adult, watching Mike sleep, the early springtime sun shine on his naked body, on his brownish hair, Doug thought, “There’s no way that should have worked.” No one was checking for him. He should never have been able to disappear with a teacher over night. He never wrote any excuses, never really engaged in any subterfuge.
Suddenly he wondered about his uncle, his godfather. Where was Prynne? Strangely absent this whole miserable year. Prynne was never overbearing, but that year he seemed nonexistent. Had he never, not once, on those Thursdays, seen his godchild traipse off at six o’clock in the even with a school teacher, or never knocked on his door and seen he was not there?
CharmedFan28
JUB Addict
Yet more I didn’t know about Doug. I don’t think what Max did was right, I’m glad he can see that now looking back on it. Excellent writing and I look forward to more.