I woke up aching from the physical and sexual exercise Thommy had put me through. Aching and heartsore, too. It was going to be hard, maybe impossible, to bury the angry words, to withdraw my threat to stop the sex and his threat to move out. We were such an odd couple, anyway, not just because he was straight, but because he was straightforward, simple, open, and I am scarred and devious. He had a disciplined mind, but it was secondary to his physical being. I thought of my wit and wits as my best assets. He was certain of his attractiveness and his future. Until I met him, I was going nowhere and sometimes backwards.

In the darkness of my bedroom, I could feel the warmth of his body and summon up images of its beauty. I smelled his health, his youth, his maleness, and I craved him, not just his sexual strength, but his uncomplicated wholeness. I started to put a hand where I guessed his thigh was, but I pulled back. That kind of intimacy would be hollow. I had to find another footing for us, and it couldn't be in bed. Or not just in bed.

I slid off the mattress, tiptoed to the bathroom and, with only a frayed old robe around me, to the kitchen. My Saturday marketing was waiting, the oatmeal to be made from scratch, fresh eggs, fat sausages, flour for pancake batter and plump blueberries - wildly expensive, out of season - to go in the batter. It took time to get everything going, but just as I put the coffee on and got ready to wake Thommy, his hands slipped over my eyes.

"Guess who."

"Robert Redford?"

"Close," he chuckled. "Good morning, Simon." He stepped in front of me and took my hand. He was dressed in sweat pants and a ratty button-down shirt and had the damp hair of someone who has just showered. He was clean and sparkling and unsure of himself. "Simon? About last night? Can I say something?"

"Your breakfast is ready. Let's eat. We can talk later."

"Please. I've got to say this now. I thought about it in the shower, and I want to say it right before I forget the words." He was suddenly so young, so obviously uncomfortable that I only wanted him to go back to being his easy, confident self. I nodded my okay.

"What I did to you last night was terrible," he said. "And it was all my fault. I can't handle alcohol, or at least I'm never going to try, and I can't handle dope either. I hurt you, and I'm really sorry. And I don't want to do that ever again. So I think you were right and we shouldn't have sex any more. You're my best friend. I love you for that. I really do. And we don't need to … we don't need to do those things any more."

"You don't want me to touch you?" I could hear the hurt and the astonishment in my voice. "You won't sleep in my bed? We can't shower together? I thought you liked sex, Thommy. I thought I pleased you."

"But it's one-sided, like you said. I see that. I thought you wanted me, but you were just being nice and loving, and I took advantage. I really like sleeping with you, Simon. When you hold me, I feel safe and loved, and that's wonderful. But we shouldn't get naked together any more. If you let me stay, I promise to wear pajamas or something. Would that be all right?"

He was so earnest, so without guile. I thought the idea of living together like monks was terrible, but the most important thing was not to let him go. "It's a bargain," I said. I put out my free hand. He took it. I pulled him to me. "You didn't say we couldn't kiss," I smiled at him.

He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me soundly, chummily, sexlessly. "Thank you, Simon, thank you. You know so much about love. Thank you for teaching me. And thank you for making breakfast. It looks great."

So we kissed and made up and began to drift apart. Thommy was oblivious. He wolfed down the food, praising and thanking me between mouthfuls, but I suspected that in his own mind, he was off to new adventures and new conquests. I was a book he was closing. After he cleaned up the breakfast dishes while I sipped my coffee, he came and put his hands on my shoulders and kissed the top of my head.

"I'm going to take some dirty clothes to the laundromat, Simon, and then I'm going to meet the guys from Tisch, and we're just going to hang out. I don't know what time I'll be back. What are you going to do today?"

"I hadn't made any plans. I may call Zeke and Barry."

"What about Rob?"

"He went fishing." I tensed. "Thommy, would it make you happy if I didn't see Rob? I don't have any feelings for him. Not the way I do for you. There's nothing there for you to be jealous about."

"I'm not jealous." The reply was too quick to be completely honest. "I thought he was okay. Quiet, sort of. And I don't have any claim on you, Simon."

"But you want to sleep in my bed. What if Rob was in it, too?"

"Would you do that?" He seemed really shocked.

"I've made love with two other men at the same time. Gays do that now and then. It can be fun."

"You're teasing me, aren't you? You mean you'd be sucking me while Rob, or somebody, was humping you? How could that feel good?"

"Trust me, Thommy. It can. And maybe you'd be the one giving head while Rob or I fucked you. You could be Lucky Pierre. You might like that. Being the center of attention."

He was blushing. I'd punched a button. He may even have been a bit aroused, but he wasn't going to admit it.

"No, thanks," he tried to sound firm. "Look, Simon, I meant it about sex. It's going to be better if we cut that out. And if you are in bed with someone, you can just tie a handkerchief on the doorknob. That's what guys did at college to keep their roommates from barging in. I can always sleep in the spare room. I don't mind."

On that note, he was out the door, and I was alone. I dressed and went out myself to pick up the Times and came back to find the light blinking on my answering machine. The message was from Thommy: "Hey, Simon. I hope you're out for a run. That's why I called. To remind you to exercise. It'll make you feel better. Have fun."

I swore at the machine, but of course Boy Wonder was right. And at least he cared enough to nag me. First things first, though. The Sunday paper is a ritual for me. I start with the arts and theater sections, then the fashion and gossip, then the book review and, my special treat, the crossword in the magazine. If I got all the clues, and sometimes I did, I knew my mind was still working on all cylinders.

That day, by God, I solved the puzzle in about 45 minutes and felt Olympian. Until I remembered my duty to Thommy. What he didn't know was that I used to exercise, almost religiously. I even owned a Stone-Age rowing machine that I had stashed under the bed in the spare room when the will to fitness lost out to the boredom of going nowhere backwards. I went into Thommy's room and was not surprised to find it neat as a pin. I was surprised to find a note scotch-taped to the seat of the machine. "Go for it, Simon!" I read. "Exercise makes you sexy. Love, Thommy"

I set the damn thing up in front of the mirrors and went at it till I was sweating like a horse and actually getting into a rhythm that didn't make me feel sexy, but did make me feel good. I put the apparatus back and decided I had earned a shower and a decent lunch, but after I toweled off, I lay down for just a few minutes and woke up only when the telephone jangled. I was disoriented and when I saw my bedside clock - four fifteen - I was astonished. I had slept nearly three hours.

Groggily, I lifted the receiver and mumbled something into it.

"Simon?" came the reply. "Simon, is that you?"

"Yeah. Last time I looked." My usual, charming self.

"Simon, I'm sorry. This must be a bad time. I'll let you go."

"No," I said. "Wait. Who is this?"

"It's Rob. I didn't mean to bother you, but I've got a problem, and you said that you cook, so…"

"Rob? Rob, as in last night? You said that you cook. What's the problem?"

"Fish," he laughed. "Fish I caught today. Bluefish, and I've only ever cooked trout, and somehow I don't think this thing can just be sauteed."

"I think you're right. Have you got a poacher?"

"Somewhere between Colorado and here. But not on me. What about broiling?"

"You can. A little butter on top, tinfoil underneath. Not too long."

"Tinfoil?"

"On a cookie tin."

"Three strikes. I'm out. Thanks anyway, Simon. I'm sorry I bothered you."

"You didn't bother me. The truth is I had a workout that seems to have led to a kind of intense nap. But I'm awake now." I paused. "Rob, I have a poacher. And tinfoil. Would you like to come over for a cooking lesson?"

"Oh, that's imposing too much."

"Not if you bring the fish."

He did. And some golden beets and bread and cheese and a bottle of Vouvray and a box of Godiva, a welcome-to-New-York present from his secretary. I got out the vodka and poured us each a stiff drink.

"Another welcome-to-New-York ritual," I said, raising my glass. "She must have the hots for you. Those are pricey chocolates."

"He," Rob gave an embarrassed smile. "He's 23 going on 11. It's like having a crush on the teacher. I don't know how to handle it, but I have to do something. Office romances are a disaster."

"Is he cute?"

"That's part of the problem. He's adorable. Not butch, like that gorgeous boy of yours, more, … more yielding sort of. But totally off limits. I did that once…" he frowned and stopped. "By the way, where is your boy? I've got enough fish for the Sermon on the Mount."

"Rob," I nearly snapped at him. "Thommy is not my boy. I wish. He lives here, but that's it. I admit that it looks pretty strange, but the kid thinks he's straight. I told you and Zeke that. And I. Well, I haven't been able to change his mind."

"At least you tried," Rob smiled.

"Wouldn't you?"

"In a flash."

I laughed. "Well, I guess we have something else in common. Like chamber music. And cooking. Which maybe we ought to start doing."

It wasn't an elaborate meal, but it was good, and we had a good time preparing and eating it together. I felt something I rarely experienced with other gay men my age. I felt at ease, not on trial. Rob and I swapped snatches of life histories, discovering that we were both orphans with overbearing older sisters whom we avoided as much as possible. "When I got divorced," Rob said casually. "Ramona even sided with my wife. I never had a chance."

"Is that what Zeke and Barry meant about you needing someone to take care of you?" As soon as I said it, I groaned at my own clumsiness. It must have been the second vodka or the third that made me blurt out something so personal.

"Did they say that?" Rob looked angry and hurt. He put his head in his hands for a moment and then looked squarely at me. "Well, shit," he said. "It's true. I'm totally fucked-up. I loved my wife and I lost her. I have a baby son I'm not allowed to go near. I love teaching and I love the mountains, and I'm stuck in an administrative job in a filthy city. I didn't want to be a queer, but I am. And I'm alone." He paused and then stood up. "Simon, I'm sorry. I've just spoiled a really nice evening. I ought to go before I do any more damage."

I got up quickly and put my hand out to bar his way. "Please, Rob. Please, don't go yet. I didn't mean to pry like that. It's just," I hesitated. "The thing is I really like you. And I'm alone, too. And being alone is awful. Just awful."

"It is," he whispered. He took my arm and pulled it to his waist. Then he put his other arm over my shoulder and drew me into a hug. We just stood there half in, half out of the kitchen, in a silent, awkward embrace, both of us fighting tears and winning, both of us scared of the way we'd opened up to each other, so quickly, barely acquaintances, hardly friends.

Rob spoke first, drawing a little apart but still keeping his hand on my back. "What if they're right?" he smiled. "Wasn't that what I asked last night?"

I let my hand drop to his butt and pulled us close again. "They often are," I said. "Wasn't that how I answered you?" I grinned crazily. "I guess this is one of those times. But we don't have to tell them, do we?"

"There isn't anything to tell. So far." He was grinning, too, and I couldn't resist. I kissed him. He tasted of Godiva. He kissed me back. "I think I'm hungry," he dead-panned.

"But we just ate." I was a little slow.

"Not that kind of hungry." He licked his lips and beamed at me. "I'd like to sample the Simon menu. The house special."

"You would?" My repartee was leaving a lot to be desired. "I mean, you would? Oh, my God, Rob, would you? Could we? Now?"

"Do I need a note from home?" he laughed. Then he took my head in his hands and kissed me, first on the mouth, then on my throat and around my ear, and he bent my head down till he could reach the back of my neck. My knees wobbled, and I grabbed him around the waist to steady myself. One of my hands went down the back of his jeans.

"I take that as a yes," he said. "Do you have a bedroom or are you a kitchen-floor kind of guy?"

"I can go either way." I tried for a light tone, but my voice wavered. "I think I left the sleeping quarters over here." I gestured expansively down the hallway, remembering too late that the bed was a rumpled mess and the sweaty clothes I'd worn on the rowing machine were mounded on the floor.

"Cozy," Rob murmured as he surveyed the room. "But those shorts of yours look like they need company. My jeans, for instance. Your jeans, for instance." He started to unbuckle his belt, one of those wide, tooled-leather, faux-cowboy things. I put my hand on his.

"Could I do the honors, Rob?" I asked. "I'd kind of like to discover you for myself."

"Sure." He put his hands at his sides. "Simon, I'm nothing special. I'd like to be. For you. But you'll see, I'm just ordinary."

"Can I decide that for myself?" I had opened the belt and undone the top button of his pants. My fingers worked up his shirtfront, and when it was unbuttoned, I pulled the sleeves off his arms and pressed my mouth to the fabric of his tee shirt over the right nipple. I could just feel its nub harden. Rob gave a tiny whimper and twitched in my arms.

"That's so nice, Simon." One of his hands began stroking my neck and up into the hair on the back of my head. "I'd forgotten what it's like to have someone's lips on me there."

"Has it been so long?" I asked as I drew the cotton tee over his head. Except for a clump of thick black hair on his sternum and a thin column rising from his navel, Rob's lean torso was hairless. The hair in his armpits, though, was dense, and the scent that rose from them as my tongue trekked across his chest was wonderfully male. He was sweating already, and we'd barely begun. I was delighted.

"Long," he moaned. "Oh, God, Simon, please stop. Let me get your clothes off before I lose control."

"There's nothing wrong with losing control," I said. "We're consenting adults. But go ahead. I thought you'd never ask."