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When I met Jon he was just past chubby, melted down into a lithe boy who was starting to show signs of man. He was a young man the way a colt is part gangly animal and part magical apparition. He wore his awkwardness like a beetle wears its shell, to cover up the soft inside.

He was my highschool friend. He sometimes flirted with me, just to practice. I watched him hesitating on the cusp of growing up. If he had been more self-assured I would have been smitten, and if I had been any more self-assured I’d have taken him — easy, the way his hormones were trembling and threatening to spill over, like water from a glass. But I was not the one he chose for his first affair.

Mr. White had just been hired to teach at the highschool. He was on a three-year contract, and that was all the longer he would stay, because teachers like him are never hired back. He must have interviewed in his one regular suit — he’d never have gotten the job dressed the way he usually did, in old, old clothes, antique three-piece suits and wire-rimmed glasses and a watch and chain. He was hired to teach drama, of course — that’s probably why they let him slip by — and English.

He looked English, actually, like a headmaster at a shabby third cousin of Eton. He had bright, lavishly-lashed eyes and a mustache that curled. No one in our remote little town had never seen anything like him. He was like a time traveler who had taken a very wrong stop. He could not have been expected to have anything in common with a bunch of ranchers’ sons and daughters. Nevertheless a few of us had determined that we were not going to be hicks. We were over him like flies on honey.

Jon was skittish around Mr. White from the start, manic even. For about a week he joined the other boys, raving about what a fruit and a faggot the new teacher was. But by the end of the second week of school he had arranged to join three extracurricular clubs — the Thespians, the school paper, and a modern novel study group — so he could be near him.

On any given day Jon could be found before class, after class, and often at lunch in Mr.White’s room. I knew that because I was in the habit of dropping by at those times myself. Of all the students who clustered around the new teacher, I was the closest to understanding just why he seemed so odd. He was so completely different from any other man I’d ever known, in his eccentricity so sweet and strange, that of course I began cruising him almost right away. I was just learning that having sex with a person could teach me things about them and about myself, and I was sure Mr. White was a wealth of things I wanted to know.

But he made no response to my attempts to interest him. Not a negative response — just none. He didn’t even seem to notice. He took flirtation as another indication of friendliness, and was friendly in return. I didn’t feel rejected, exactly, because it dawned on me that Mr. White would never want me the way he wanted Jon.

I watched Jon become a golden boy as the teacher gentled him like a wild thing. He went from edgy and defensive to a secure position as Mr. White’s sidekick. He starred in the plays; he was ace reporter; he grew handsomer and more confident as he was courted.

Our town was so small and so remote no one saw it for what it was, not even, at first, Jon himself. Everybody thought they knew what a faggot was — it was practically synonymous with “stranger” — but after they got to know Mr. White he turned out not to fit the ideas they had, the faggot-baiting ceased and was forgotten. Only I knew that a careful dance was being done between Jon and Mr. White — I knew it because I had wanted to do that dance myself. I was their witness first in secret, and later I was the only one either of them trusted to talk about the other. So in the end I danced with them, a sometimes-awkward third, as Jon grew more golden and Mr. White grew hungry for him.

It was late in our senior year. One night after a play rehearsal ended early we got in Mr. White’s old round Volvo and drove to his house. Neither Jon nor I were expected home for a couple of hours, and it was not the first time the three of us had stolen time so we could hang out together away from school. Mr. White had no friends in town expect those few pet students who weren’t put off by his eccentricity, and Jon and I liked to escape our student roles and pretend we were grownups who could spend our time as we liked. Besides, befriending Mr. White had made us feel less like we belonged in our community, and all year long we’d spent as much time with him as we could — a support system had formed between the three of us to the exclusion of everyone else.

There was a massage table set up in the living room, although I was sure it was hardly ever used. As far as I knew Mr. White rarely had guests of any kind. But when Jon saw it he insisted that he wanted a massage; he’d never had a real one, he wanted to try it.

“I can’t do it through clothes,” Mr. White said, and I really think he was trying to put Jon off. But Jon replied, “I’ll take them off, then,” and began shucking his t-shirt. For a split second the man looked panicked, but when he glanced over at me, for help or permission, I held out a joint I had fished from my bag. I had a feeling I was supposed to be there for this, that maybe Jon wouldn’t have been so forward it he and the teacher had been alone.

“Go ahead, I’m occupied,” I said, pulling a couple of Mr.White’s art books off the shelf, opening ‘The Collected Aubrey Beardsley.’ I didn’t look at it, though. I watched Jon’s body emerge, watches the golden hairs on his arms and legs catch the low lamplight. And I watched Mr.White’s eyes follow his movements; Jon was turned away so he couldn’t see how both of us lapped up his beauty as he revealed it.

He was slender, just beginning to muscle, and his skin looked so soft that I wondered how Mr.White would be able to touch it. My panties felt slick. I squeezed my legs together and watched as Jon got on the table. All nonchalance, he lay back with his head on his hands like a boy in an Eakins painting, like it was a century ago and he’d just crawled out of the swimming hole to lie in the sun, his cock lolling on his thigh, but I saw him trying to control his too-fast breath, I saw he had put his hands behind his head to hide their shaking.

“I feel funny being the only one naked,” he said, and he wasn’t addressing this to me. Mr.White’s eyes went wide, he pretended not to hear as he hunted in a heavy old cabinet for massage oil, but Jon insisted: “Take your clothes off too. I feel silly like this.”

I tried to disappear into the cushions. I was afraid Mr. White wouldn’t do anything with me there; I wanted to watch his hands caressing Jon, and I wanted to see him naked, too. More, I wanted something to happen to give Mr. White pleasure — I thought about how lonely he must be, his bed as empty as his massage table. He desires Jon, and I wanted him to have him. I hid behind the big volume of Beardsley, lowering my eyes in intent study of the fey young dandies sprouting huge cocks, and watched my two friends through my lowered lashes.

For twenty years I have marveled at Mr.White’s courage in the face of the fear he must have felt: stripping his clothes off in front of a woman (I don’t think he ever had), exposing his body so like the naked androgynes in the Maxfield Parrish prints that decorated his walls, and reaching to touch a boy who, by the laws of the state was only just barely old enough. That night I marveled at the way he looked, even naked, like he had landed in the wrong time, and how looking at them filled me, choked me with lust, and the excitement summered in me without boiling, for I was only there to witness. The man warmed a pool of oil in his fine, slender hands and touched the boy, just lightly. “Here, turn over,” he said.

Jon lay on his stomach on the table, head turned toward me, eyes half-closed. Mr. White held his shoulders for an instant and Jon sighed, giving up a bit of his fright to the warmth of the man’s hands on his skin. Then Mr. White began sweeping strokes down Jon’s body and I realized I didn’t have to pretend not to be there, not to see: my presence had not prevented their touching, it wouldn’t stop now that it had begun. I let the book fall and watched openly, watched Mr.White’s cock rise, growing with each stroke as if hands were stroking it to fullness. I watched him grow mesmerized, his hands on the young body he had wanted for so long. I learned how to watch that night, for I could feel the strokes of his oiled hands on me as I watched as if they were on my own flesh, and I could feel Jon’s tender boy-skin under my hands as if I were the one touching him. I stayed curled in the corner of the sofa, wanting to be just there, one of my hands on my pussy squeezing tight and the other holding my breast, realizing I could make love with both of them just with my eyes.

Mr. White was making love with his hands, and Jon was moving his body subtly into them, responding to the touch in a way I knew was sexual — it was the way I moved when someone touched me. He let out an occasional little sound, and his breath was even now, but beginning to quicken again, not in fear this time. No one had ever touched him like this before, I thought, and another jolt of arousal coursed through me, thinking that Jon was a virgin.

The man was exploring him, every inch of skin oiled now and gleaming in the light, every muscled traced and kneaded, every curve of his body voluptuously stroked. Each time he stroked up Jon’s thighs and over the muscles of his ass Mr. White brought his hands closer together, testing the boy’s response as he came neared the cleft of his ass cheeks. I could feel my cunt frankly wet through my panties now, and Jon squirmed in an encouraging way each time the hands neared, raising his ass for more pressure.

Mr. White responded by stroking harder, pulling the cheeks apart each time; I couldn’t see the puckered anal ring from where I was sitting, but I felt sure that if I could, I would come. I wondered if Jon had never had anything in his ass — when I masturbated I sometimes slid a finger into mine, or fucked myself with a candle, and I thought about him sliding a slick wax taper up his ass in the secrecy of his room, getting used to the feeling and pumping it in and out, and I thought of him fucking himself in the ass and thinking of Mr. White’s long, slim cock sliding up into his soft hotness there — and I did come.

I didn’t make much noise, but enough for them to hear me. Jon let out a real moan then, and I saw that he had begun to thrust, stroking his cock against the table. Mr. White stopped him with the pressure of a hand. “Turn back over now, Jon,” he said, in a voice I had never heard him use, low and sexual and almost enough to make me come a second time.

Jon’s cock was hugely hard, an incongruous man’s cock jutting up from his boy’s body, and seeing it I wanted to climb onto the table and lower myself down on it, take him, be the first, almost as much I wanted to watch.

I could scarcely believe Mr. White had the self-control not to reach right for it, but he teased Jon — or maybe he was intent on giving him a good massage in spite of himself. He stroked up and down the boy’s body, missing the cock each time, but attentive instead to nipples and belly, until Jon started to buck again with desire. A beaded strand of pre-come gleamed in his downy belly-hair like a spider’s dewed web, and I wanted to lick it off, but thought if I waited maybe I’d get to watch Mr. White do it.

During the next near-brush with his cock Jon lifted his hand, and for a moment I thought he was going to touch himself in frustration. But he reached for Mr.White and took the man’s cock, which leaped and strained at his first tentative touch, and began to stroke it. Mr. White gasped, then said, “Jon…” Jon tugged on Mr. White’s cock, pulling the man closer. “Your mouth — please…” Jon said. “Your mouth, I want it… I want to feel it…”

Mr. White moved closer, all semblance of massage gone with the boy’s request, and stroked Jon’s cock a few times, taking its measure, getting the full feel of it in his hands. Then he bent to run his tongue up and down his length — Jon started gasping immediately — and then sucked the head into his mouth. I thought Jon would come right away, but the man knew what he was doing. He remained still until the boy’s orgasm ebbed, and then began sucking his cock in earnest, pulling it all the way down his throat, drawing back to just tongue the tip, keeping the rhythm just uneven enough that Jon could keep from coming. He held the boy’s balls clasped in one hand and squeezed them — whenever he squeezed them harder I heard Jon gasp.

I had pulled my panties aside and had three fingers deep in my cunt. I was dreaming about kneeling next to Mr. White and taking his cock deep down my throat, maybe wetting a finger and sliding it up his ass, but I was afraid. I was sure he had had his cock sucked by plenty of men. I hadn’t done it very much, and I didn’t want to do it badly in comparison. I contented myself with watching him, trying to figure out what exactly he was doing to Jon. Whatever it was, he was responding like it was an angel whose lips were wrapped around his dick, not just his teacher’s.

Jon had begun to murmur: “I want it, I want it…” rhythmically, entranced. He was twisting his torso, trying to reach Mr. White’s cock with his mouth, trying to suck him in return. Mr. White finally knelt over him on the table, obliging him, and Jon went for his cock with the hunger of an overripe virgin. He held the man by the waist and tried to bring him down closer, tried to get more of his cock, and Mr. White swallowed all of Jon’s cock and, with a moan, began thrusting into Jon’s mouth. Jon took it, moaning too. His oiled body still gleamed in the lamplight, golden, and he fucked up into his teacher’s throat.

I had been coming for five minutes by the time they finally came, Jon shooting with a last hard thrust and what would have been a yell if his mouth hadn’t been so full, and Mr. White with a long groan, in immediate response. The boy took the man’s come like he’d sucked cock before, but I don’t think he ever had. He lay whimpering a little after his blast, suckling at the man’s softening cock and breathing hard. After a while Mr. White turned around and held him, and Jon buried his head in his neck and hugged him close — once again I saw the young boy in him, and wondered what would happen now that that boy was playing tug-o-war with man.

Mr. White came to me and kissed me, once, lingeringly, before he took Jon to the shower to scrub off the oil, letting me have the scent of the boy’s sweet cum. I rose and went to the empty massage table, running my fingertips on the warm oily surface. At my feet the Beardsley book lay open, a black-haired young fop sprouting an enormous erection, fondled by a man much older than he.

–the end–

Author’s Note: Much love and gratitude to the people whose composites make up these portraits — and much love and luck to anyone growing up queer in a small town. *

by Carol A. Queen