The shower was better than all right. I washed him first, and when it was my turn, he did my back and he scrubbed between my ass cheeks and then he pressed against me so that I could feel his erection pushing my buttocks apart and went to work on my cock and balls. He played with me, loose feathery strokes and then a tight, soapy fist and, as I got hotter and harder, he drew my body back into his and sort of dry-humped me as he brought me off.

"You learn fast, kiddo," I said when I recovered the power of speech. "You must be at least a little bit gay."

"Maybe." He had bent down to wash my legs and feet. "But I don't think so. I like touching you, Simon, and having you hold me, and I really like having sex with you, but it's because I know you can't resist me. And I can't resist me. That makes us alike. And when I have your penis in my hand, it's as though I were doing it to myself. So, of course, I want it to be good."

"But when you held me just now, you got hard, Thommy. Unless you're gay, you shouldn't react to another man that way. You don't seem at all uncomfortable being naked with me, for instance, or with my naked body."

"It's a nice body, Simon." He stood up and poured some shampoo into his hand and began to wash my hair. "You could do with some more regular exercise, and you ought to stand up straight, but I like your body. I like using your body, to tell you the truth. The reason I get that way with you is that now I've found out about sex, I want it all the time. And you're the only person I know who will always help me out. Won't you?"

I nodded. I was speechless. I'd never heard anyone be so frank about his desires, but Thommy had swung 180 degrees from thinking his genitals were shameful to thinking that the world, or at least Simon Moore, existed to get him off. He had been naïve before, and he was still naïve but in a sexually aroused way. I had created a monster, and he held me in the palm of his hand.

He really did. After I'd washed his hair and we'd dried each other, he came back into my room because he said he wanted to watch me dress. "Gay men dress just like straight ones, Thommy," I joked in embarrassment. "One leg at a time."

It turned out, though, that he wanted to see the kind of clothes I wear. Boxers, for the record, and mid-calf socks and jeans that have been faded in the right places and that hug my ass. "Are you making it stick out like that on purpose?" he asked, pointing at my crotch.

"My basket, yeah. Some people call it a package. It's what other men look at almost first and if you've got a nice one, you want to show it off. The same goes for the butt. If you're cruising, that is."

"Are there really cruises that only gays go on?"

"So they say. But that's not what cruising is. Thommy, can we have breakfast? I need some coffee. Your boy-toy needs a fix."

He leered and laughed. "Boy-toy. That's really funny. Simon, would you mind not wearing a shirt this morning? I want you to be able to see your tummy."

"Whatever you say. But if you're going to stay nude like that, you can bring me breakfast in bed. If not, I'll be in the kitchen."

He went and dressed in a tracksuit and trainers and demolished the eggs, sausage and muffins I put in front of him. "Would you make pancakes for me some day, Simon?" More an order than a request. "And oatmeal, too, please? I love breakfast. It's my favorite meal." He must have seen that I took only toast and coffee, but Thommy was a human bulldozer. He carved up the landscape to suit himself, and I was just part of the landscape.

He did help with the dishes. In his way, he had good manners. He also had a one-track mind. The inquisition began with the subject of cruising. Then clothes, then ways that gay men identify one another, who makes the first move, how they establish sex roles and preferences, where they meet. I felt as though I were conducting a seminar and that Thommy should be taking notes. He was certainly absorbing every word I said, and after a while I worried that some of my glib answers were misleading him.

"Thommy, you've got to remember what Eldon said the other night in the restaurant. There really are a million different ways to be gay. I can't stand Eldon, but he's right about that. The character you're going to play ought to be very masculine because you are, but being masculine doesn't mean that you have to wear leather or hate opera or have a hairy chest and big balls. And being gay doesn't mean being effeminate or finicky or having great color sense or an obsession with penis size. It just means that you love men the way most men love women."

"Well," he reflected, "that may be part of my problem. I've never been in love."

"I guess I can't help you there," I said.

"You could, I think, if you wanted to, Simon." He picked up on the bitterness in my voice. "You could tell me what it's like. You've been in love. What did you feel?"

"Needed. I felt needed. Can we just leave it at that?"

"I need you, Simon." He took my hand in both of his and stroked the knuckles a little. "Is that why you say you love me?"

"It must have something to do with it, but basically, it's chemical. You are the best-looking man I've seen in years, and you're young and vigorous and you act kind of innocent. When you smiled at me in the car that first afternoon, I fell for you. Now, I can't get up. I'm so scared of losing you I don't act like myself any more. So, I guess that means I need you a lot more than you need me."

"Are you angry at me?"

"At myself. For being a fool. That's another thing. You don't have to be gay to be self-destructive, but it helps. Now go away, kid. School's out."

"Not quite, Simon. Please." He stood up and pulled me to my feet. He drew me out into the hall to his beloved mirrors. Stationing himself behind me, he made me square my shoulders and then look at my reflected image. My good points in his appraisal were my eyes ("That's almost a Paul Newman blue," he said.), my thick lashes, the silver flecks in the hair on my temples, the suggestion of a dimple in my chin, the width of my shoulders and the lift of my butt. "But you've been letting yourself go, haven't you?" He poked at the thin roll of flab that lapped a little over my belt. "And you walk with your head down a lot. We've got to do something about that."

"Are you going to be my personal trainer, Thommy? Why do you want to fix me up, anyway? Isn't my asshole tight enough for you?"

"Oh, Simon, don't. Don't." His arms circled me and pulled me back hard against him. "You've helped me. I want to help you. Please let me try. Don't hit me with the elephant stick. It hurts."

"But it works. You don't see any elephants, do you?'

"Or friends. I don't see the friends you ought to have. I don't see the lover you ought to have."

"He got married and moved to Texas."

"But that happened a long time ago, you said. Don't you want anyone else in your life?"

"I have you."

"But I'm going to have girls and get married and move to California and be famous. You don't want to go through the unhappiness twice."

"When you're in love, Thommy, you only think about happy endings."

"All right. We'll think one up. Meantime, will you come to the gym with me and get some exercise this morning?"

"Which gym?"

"At NYU. It's nice. Well, it's crowded, but it's free."

"If you're a student. I'm not. You go ahead. I have to clean this place."

"No, I will. I know how to clean. And you can exercise right here. Do sit-ups and crunches, like I was doing the other night. Then we can go for a run."

He got his sleeping bag, sat me down on it and watched while I started. Then he brought me a couple of dumbbells and gave me a routine for using them. "And watch yourself in the mirror," he said. "It's more fun that way." I lasted maybe 30 minutes, finishing up with some push-ups, as I listened to the vacuum cleaner he was guiding around different rooms. When I went into the kitchen to get a well-deserved glass of water, he was scrubbing the sink and the countertops.

"You look better already." He put his palm on my chest. "You're sexy when you're sweaty. Will you come running with me now?"

I agreed. I think I would have agreed to climb Mt. Everest if he had asked me. But I regretted it. Thommy set a tough pace, and even though traffic thinned as we moved into the nearly deserted financial district, I was constantly afraid of losing him as we jogged. Finally, I called it quits and limped home. I rested and went out and did some marketing. Thommy appeared three hours later. He'd had his run, and he'd been to the gym, and he glowed. He wanted another kind of exercise, but I thought that if I let him screw me whenever the idea occurred to him, I really would turn into his boy-toy.

"Could we save it till later, Thommy?" I asked. "What if we went out for supper and a flick? They're showing the Brando movie I told you about, 'Streetcar,' and you ought to see it to see how beautiful he was once and also what a great actor he was even then."

"And you'll make love to me afterwards?"

"Promise."

We had an indifferent Italian meal, Dutch treat, but the film made up for it, even though Thommy was more excited by Vivien Leigh than by Brando. Walking out of the movie theater, he was imitating her breathy lament about depending "on the kindness of strangers" when I heard someone behind us calling my name. I turned, surprised and then delighted to see Zeke Kaplin, one of the first friends I'd made in New York and still one of the closest. I had introduced him to his partner, Barry Delaunay, six years earlier. They had clicked instantly and, I thought, forever. But now Zeke was pushing through the small crowd toward me with a striking-looking companion, black-haired, tall and slender. Handsome despite a very obviously broken nose, he also seemed, as Zeke tugged him along the crowded sidewalk, to be looking, almost frantically, for an exit. His eyes darted around. He swiveled his body this way and that, and when Zeke let go of him to embrace me, the other man took several backward steps as though to distance himself as much as he could.

"You look familiar, sir," I said to Zeke, pretending to push him away, "Very like a friend I had once who disappeared to Polynesia and may have been eaten by cannibals. Ezekiel Kaplin was his name. He used to call me quite often. There is an unusual resemblance, although your skin is a good deal darker. Perhaps you've heard of him. A financial analyst? Bon vivant?"

"Okay, Simon, okay. You've made your point. I'm a shit," Zeke was smiling but a little bit contrite. "I'm really sorry, but we've only been back less than two weeks, and work has been hell, and Barry's been on the road and the General Assembly ... well, you know." He hugged me again. "God, it's great to see you. Are you going to forgive me?"

"Not immediately, but soon." I laughed. "What's this crap about the General Assembly? And where's Barry?"

"The General Assembly? I just threw that in for the hell of it. Barry's with a client but we're going to meet him later. I'm glad you like my tan. You do like it, don't you? And it's all over. You don't need clothes in the South Seas, Simon, and you should've seen some of the cannibals. Positively edible. We've got photos. Rob loved them. Oh, you've got to meet Rob." He swiveled around, looking, I assumed, for the man he'd had in tow.

Spotting him - kneeling to tie his shoelaces and, I guessed, to make himself invisible - Zeke grabbed his friend by the elbow, pulled him to his feet and pushed him toward me. "Simon," he said. "I'm returning a favor. This is Rob Andelman. We were, uh, fraternity brothers in college. He's just moved to New York to run that radio and TV museum. Rob, this is Simon Moore. He knows everything about everything. And he's an eligible bachelor."

Zeke's patter suddenly ground to a halt. His eyebrows arched. Obviously, he had finally noticed Thommy standing a little behind me.

"Oh, Simon," he stammered. "I'm sorry. I didn't know... Should I know? Have you...? Christ, he's awfully young." That was a whisper, but a pretty audible one.

I shook Rob's hand. "It's nice to meet you." It was. He had incredible green eyes and a firm handshake. "Welcome to New York. I'm sorry you've fallen into such bad company, but it's a big city. It's one of the risks you take."

Rob smiled, a little tentatively, but still it was a smile. His teeth were perfect. "And here's someone who'll be in your museum pretty soon," I went on. "Thommy Farmer, Rob... I'm sorry. I didn't catch your last name."

"Andelman. Glad to meet you. Both of you. Thanks, Simon, for warning me about Zeke. He was an okay guy in college, but that was a long time ago. People change."

Zeke was dancing around the three of us looking for an opening. Finally, he just pushed his way in and took Thommy's hand. "I'm Zeke Kaplin, and you're out of sight. How are you going to get into the museum? As a statue?"

"As an actor," I answered. "Thommy's got a part in a new sitcom. I'm giving him some pointers on the role."

"Let me guess," Zeke was, as usual, in a mischievous mood. "You're the star quarterback, but you really want to paint and play the flute only a lot of college coaches are offering you athletic scholarships and your little sister needs an operation."

I started to reply, but Thommy beat me to it. "Trombone," he grinned, "not the flute. Actually, Mr. Kaplin, it's a sitcom not a soap opera, and I'm supposed to be gay, but I'm straight, and Simon is teaching me how."

"To be straight?" Zeke feigned astonishment. "That's not really his strong suit."

"No. To act gay. Until I met Simon, I didn't know anybody who was gay, so he's helping me learn. We talk about it a lot."

I kept my mouth shut. I hadn't imagined Thommy could be so discreet. But Zeke wasn't buying. He turned to me.

"That's the biggest load of bullshit I've heard this week, Simon. You don't expect me to believe that you have lured this gorgeous kid into your web by pretending to be a mentor for young actors. Come clean. How did you trap him?"

"It's a short and not very romantic story, Zeke," I said. "I gave him a lift and some advice and a bed in the spare room when he was evicted. And he's promised to name all of his children after me. Where is Barry and when can I see him?"

"At the River Club, making a pitch to an unsuspecting developer from Omaha, but we made a date to meet at the Third Circle. I'm showing Rob the sights. He's a country mouse."

"Boulder is not the country. Even an effete Easterner should know that." Rob was smiling but not warmly. "And I'm not running the broadcasting museum. I'm going to be an assistant director. Zeke always had a tendency to embroider. Some things don't change."

"Truth is so dreary," Zeke vamped. "As far as I'm concerned, improving on it is a kind of public service. And, speaking of which, I need a drink." He put his hand on Thommy's upper arm. "Come on, stud, let me take you and your awe-inspiring biceps on a field trip to a gay watering hole. We'll go find Barry and booze and the boys in the back room. Simon, you and Rob can cover our rear."

"In your dreams," I said. Thommy gave me an inquiring look, asking silently if I really wanted to be part of this excursion. I debated the point, also silently, and decided I did. Thommy ought to see a gay bar. I wanted to see Barry. And, to tell the truth, I wanted to find out more about Rob Andelman. Zeke said he was "returning a favor" by introducing Rob. Zeke was one of the few people who knew me well enough to be a matchmaker, and there was something about his "country mouse" friend that did attract me. I make it a rule to stay out of noisy bars, but some rules are made to be broken. I nodded to Thommy, and the four of us set off.