Alec

by William di Canzio

As for poetry, it baffled but intrigued him; when he spent enough time, letting sound and sense come together, it could stir unnameable feelings.

On the other hand, he did find some of those mates appealing in a way that excited him. Whenever he caught himself staring, he’d look away, because he knew that staring meant he was one of those, which was true.

classical history, which he liked as much as the modern stuff bored him.

His heart would pound while he gazed; his face would flush; his cock would strain between his legs. He wanted to live in that world, to be one of those athletes, to run naked and grapple—admire, be admired—to love.

Some vessels showed scenes more dramatic: a young man with a handsome profile and dark curly beard offering a gift to a younger athlete, reaching to fondle him, seeking his love. Sometimes the athlete accepted; sometimes he refused by stopping the hand that reached. Alec thought he would welcome the gift and the touch of a man so fit and gentle; he would give love as he received it. With these noble images pleasing him, he decided there must be more to being one of those than the world’s contempt, mockery, and determination to make him hate himself.

Thoughts lead to words, words to action. Degenerate thoughts sap your manhood.”

But thoughts were all that Alec owned, and he believed his glorious athletes had more to teach him about manhood than this repulsive clerical scarecrow, who smelled like someone who never washed below his chin.

But the Church was not his only enemy. There was the very family who cherished him.

Too bad the animals were so good to eat, because he preferred them alive, or at least when they had a sporting chance,

and when Alec had started to notice the beauty of men, he’d admired Van’s straight eyebrows and smooth, strong neck.

In Van’s embrace, Alec believed he was realizing his deepest longing. Their warmth and the streaming-down sunlight; their breath and the spring breeze through the wide-open barn; the scent, the pleasure of their flesh together. It was glorious, a fulfillment of all of his senses, but Alec, who was favored by love, was mistaken about the depth of the feeling. He would one day know a joy even deeper, when he would accept not only another’s embrace, but his mind and spirit as well, and give himself in return.

In short, Alec was a pleasure to look at (“A near occasion of sin,” quipped the Irish laundress),

but hoped that by keeping a certain distance, he might avoid hurting anyone’s feelings or betraying his own lack of attraction.

He wondered if there ever would be such love, union with a like-minded man.

It seemed natural for Alec to rest a hand on the fellow’s thigh to balance himself. Relaxed by the beer, warmed by his desires, Alec moved his hand higher. The blacksmith took no notice.

“Keep it,” Risley said, exhaling the clove-scented smoke. “That race inspired me.”

In their tour of the woods, they’d walked only as far as the boathouse before Risley got to the point: he wanted sex and would pay. He began his proposal with highfalutin praise, comparing Alec’s face to those in paintings by Giorgione and his form to Mercury’s in Botticelli’s Primavera.

“Guilty as charged, but one has to say something,” Risley said. “Seems that’s all my crowd ever does—talk, talk, about the Sacred Band of Thebes and Phaedo and Socrates and David and Jonathan and the Myrmidons and formosus Alexis. Then they bat their eyelashes and retire, each to his own chaste bed. As for getting down to business, nothing. I do hate pussyfooting. I mean, what’s the point, among men?”

“What makes you think I’d be that way inclined?” “I go on my hunch—sometimes I’m wrong. But frankly it’s not your ‘inclination’ that interests me, it’s your … well, perfection…” “I heard you and the lady, earlier, inside … about field glasses and all.” “Then you know!” “She don’t mind you sayin’ unspeakable things?” “Unspeakable to whom? Florence Nightingale? Trust me, the lady don’t mind, though that husband of hers might call for smelling salts. Truth be told, she’s rather fond of boys who like boys.”

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. She was just taking care—she thought you might find it awkward if I approached you out of nowhere.”

Risley sighed. “I fear living in fear. That’s not living at all.”

“Come on, now,” he coaxed Alec, “no one’s about. There, in the boathouse. You need do nothing, only relax and enjoy yourself, as I promise you will.”

Though he might not admit it, Alec was flattered by Risley’s admiration. Being desired was a kind of power, and after last night he’d felt he had none.

“Let me just show you,” Risley said. He reached to fondle Alec. Alec gripped his wrist to stop him.

Risley said, “It’s perverse of you to refuse, when I could give us both great pleasure.”

As he matured, his loneliness was growing more urgent. He saw no one for himself, nothing.

The squire had been busy at his desk when Alec arrived for his interview. Clive set down his pen and looked up: his eyes widened on seeing the candidate. He reddened, lowered his gaze, pretended to reread the recommendation. Alec knew immediately; his knowledge was confirmed within his first month on the job. Simcox, the valet, filled Alec in on the gossip: Hadn’t one of the maids walked in on the squire, two years ago, before he was married, while he was caressing his friend from Cambridge, the fellow with the dashing black hair, in a most affectionate manner in the bedroom adjoining his own?

What did Penge hold for him? A promotion to head gamekeeper when Ayers retired? A small pension after a solitary lifetime serving the Durhams?

what about love? Surely he’d find one like himself in such a wide-open place, an honest, passionate man.

Alec discovered that when the girls touched him a certain way, he’d become aroused. It was nothing like the spontaneous overpowering rush of excitement he felt for certain men, but it sufficed to encourage him: if need be, he believed, he could perform the duties of husband.

He also started to open his mind beyond the limits of rainy Wiltshire. The Working Men’s College was offering courses at nearby Wilton. The teachers, young idealists with degrees from Cambridge and Oxford, were advancing the founder’s vision of university-style learning for men of the working classes. The scholars made regular trips from London to regional towns to deliver the goods.

Most of the men who came to sign up for school sought practical training in mechanics or drafting, with an eye to getting ahead in business. They were disappointed to find that those subjects were taught only in the city. Rather, the Wilton extension offered courses for “enrichmen...

they were to acquire knowledge through hard work, but he hoped they would also form friendships, essential to education, with their teachers and one another, by meeting outside the classroom and enjoying sports together.

Here was a man for whom learning was by no means at odds with virility, a man for his students to admire and to imitate.

Morgan seemed so at ease in the pub among workingmen that Alec found himself reevaluating the upper classes, or at least admitting there might be one or two decent folks among them.

there were many of his sort, throughout all livelihoods and social classes, as different from one another as were folks who called themselves normal.

He’d try to disguise Eros as sportsmanship by showing them some new punch or footwork, but what the man truly craved was their touch and affection.

Alec wished he could say, It’s all right, sir, go ahead, feel us up—we all think you’re grand and we’d feel you right back.

In contrast, Morgan, whom Alec deemed genuinely kind, seemed shackled by this kindness, or a misunderstanding of it. He seemed to fear that he might somehow harm others if he pursued his own desires. “May I write to you, sir?” Alec said to him in the pub after the last meeting of Italian City-State...

This warmth, this effusiveness, was what Alec liked best about Morgan.

Alec was also gratified that such a learned man as Morgan would care to know him.

There were things he wanted to say but did not know how to, or even if he should. He loved Morgan, and felt his love reciprocated, but he was not attracted to the man sexually. Alec sometimes wished it might be otherwise, because he knew that Morgan was attracted to him and would have liked to please him, but there was no forcing or faking such feeling, least of all with someone as insightful as his teacher.

making their friendship, tinged with Eros,

Alec locked eyes with the man, a handsome fellow with black hair and a mustache. He felt a sudden charge. Just as suddenly—and to his surprise—he understood it was mutual. The guest’s expression softened, unwillingly, it seemed, from anger to mildness. What was Alec seeing? Desire, loneliness, longing, even helplessness? The man’s lips parted, as if to speak, but he did not. When Alec realized they were staring at each other, he lowered his gaze and touched the brim of his cap. The car continued on toward the house.

How many (uncountable) times he had noticed a fellow, undressed him with his eyes in a flash, then, in another flash, forgotten him.

This was something new. It had to do with the change in the man’s expression from sternness to tenderness, from power to humility. Alec felt he could have walked through his gaze into the future.

Hall himself appeared above, alone, looking out at the rain. Soon the face, handsome, troubled (and lonely, Alec told himself), withdrew.

He didn’t know how, but he planned to put himself in Hall’s way tonight.

He walked away—not to his room, but to the boathouse, to stay alone again. Last night there’d been hope, but tonight his emotions were desperate, his lust urgent, fired by the day’s close contact. His senses—sight, hearing, smell—could conjure Hall now. He imagined his eyes, his voice, his warmth.

Why should any man believe he had the right to hound another about religion? Servitude, there was the reason. In the eyes of the Durhams—and Borenius too—the lower classes (embodied in their servants) were children, prone to misbehavior and not to be trusted with their own lives.