Cambridge Men

Lord Henry Whitridge was used to being master of his own world. He wielded effortless command over any milieu in which he found himself, whether it was among his family, his Cambridge classmates, or the tenants of the estate he had inherited from his father. He possessed all the traits a gentleman ought to have--beauty, strength, wit, wealth--all in perfect proportion. His beauty was not so dazzling as to outshine his intelligence. His intelligence, in turn, was never so virtuosic that it distracted from the sturdy symmetry of his figure or the healthy vigor of his athleticism. And, of course, every body can be made more beautiful, and every mind can be made to appear sharper, if one possesses a large fortune and a title. The four letters that preceded Lord Whitridge's name were as beautiful as any chiseled muscle, as impressive as any feat of strength. The sum of his bank account made any statement he made the pinnacle of wit.

Could one blame the young Henry if he thought much of himself? His manner was always dominant, but never domineering. He ruled his cohort at King's College with the easygoing entitlement of one whose supremacy had never been questioned. He was captain of the cricket team and received frequent invitations to exclusive dinners and societies. He was a man with whom one wanted to be acquainted, an advantageous connection for all those lucky enough to associate with him. All the world seemed to be made for Henry's enjoyment, and he molded the wills of those around him like soft dough in his sturdy hands.

That is, until Enzo entered his cohort.

Vincenzo Negri transferred to Cambridge in Henry's second year. The drama of his backstory conferred on him an automatic aura of mystery. He had originally been a student at the University of Bologna, but he had fled Italy after Mussolini came to power. Rumor was he had only narrowly escaped imprisonment for his political opposition by stowing away on a fishing boat headed for Albania. Enzo himself neither confirmed nor denied the rumor.

Enzo was, in many ways, a perfect foil to Henry, in body and in spirit. In contrast to the perfect symmetry of Henry's figure, Enzo's body was disproportionate. He was too thin. His nose and cheekbones were too pronounced. The matte of black hair on his head stood out in every direction. Whereas Henry projected a sturdy English stoicism, Enzo seemed to feel everything too deeply. He argued with his classmates and spoke back to professors passionately and boldly. He was an outspoken communist, and the vehemence with which he opposed the status quo attracted the attention of many. If the world was made for men like Henry to mold, Enzo seemed determined to oppose the mold, to rub against it, to unsettle its boundaries.

Henry introduced himself to Enzo as soon as he arrived, with the intention of impressing upon this newcomer that he was a power to contend with. He knocked on Enzo's door and offered him a gift: an expensive tie pin with the name of the college inscribed on it. "I brought you a welcome gift," he explained when Enzo opened the door.

Enzo took the box, opened it, and ran his finger over the small gold pin. "This looks expensive," he commented. Henry noticed a musical lilt in his Italian accent. His expression conveyed neither approval nor disapproval.

Henry took the opportunity to make sure Enzo understood his position. "Lord Henry Whitridge," he said pointedly.

Instead of being impressed, however, Enzo simply raised one eyebrow. "Tell me," he responded coldly, "how does it feel to be part of a dying caste of aristocrats?"

Henry found himself unable to think of a satisfactory response. No one had ever spoken this bluntly to him before or questioned the unequivocal virtue of his nobility. He gaped at Enzo, who stared back at him with cool intensity. Finally, to break the silence, he laughed uncomfortably as if it were a joke.

"I don't need this," Enzo said, handing the box back to Henry. Before Henry could protest, he shut the door in his face.

It was the first crack in the foundation of Henry's primacy.

There would be many more little transgressions to follow. Indeed, Enzo seemed to take active pleasure in antagonizing Henry and disrupting his comfortable orbit of acquaintances. When Henry organized a study group to discuss classical philosophy, Enzo showed up with a copy of Marx's Capital. When Henry played first batsman in the cricket finals, Enzo was the only man from King's College who did not show up to watch. Slowly, Enzo gathered a group of followers, fellow malcontents who questioned the institution of the college and, by extension, the power of Henry's wealth and status. It bothered Henry to no end, angered him, itched at him; with every small act of defiance, a chip on his pedestal fell to the floor.

***

Henry was not always the pinnacle of gentlemanly perfection that he projected to the world. He allowed himself precisely one hour every week when he let his composure slip.

Henry frequented a small, clandestine nightclub in town every Thursday. It was a seedy place, located in a part of town that none of the Cambridge men visited unless they were after one thing: boys. It was Henry's only vice, his weakness for men's bodies, and although he knew it was an egregious one, he was also an expert at containing it. He made his sojourns there as inconspicuous as possible, departing late at night and taking a cab with a different driver every time. He had a boy he favored at this particular club, a brawny, flaxen-haired man named Clive. Clive was beautiful, with a bodacious, muscular body, but best of all he was discreet. He never spoke to Henry unless necessary; he performed the transaction with prudent indifference.

On the occasions Henry visited, he had his routine down like clockwork: he would enter the nightclub, head straight for the back corner where Clive was usually to be found, purchase a quick, efficient burst of release, and be on his way. He spoke to as few people as possible, then returned to his life at Cambridge as if the transgression had never happened. Quick and contained, that was how Henry liked to keep his habits--contained enough that he never had to think about them too deeply or experience their consequences.

Halfway into the Michaelmas term, Henry's routine was interrupted. On this particular evening, he ducked his head into the basement of the nightclub and began to head in the direction of his usual corner. Before he could reach it, he crossed paths with a man who made him stop in his tracks. He wore different clothing than he did at the college, more casual and colorful, but his pronounced features and the intensity behind his eyes were unmistakable: it was Enzo.

Henry stared at Enzo; Enzo stared at Henry. Neither said a word. In Enzo's eyes, Henry saw a flicker of acknowledgment. It was not an expression of surprise, nor approval, nor derision, but rather simply an acknowledgment of sameness. Henry gave a curt nod. Enzo nodded back. Then, just like that, the moment of understanding passed. Henry turned away and continued on his route wordlessly, and Enzo was lost in the crowd--lost, but certainly not forgotten. His presence weighed on Henry's mind throughout the evening, a convergence of worlds that unsettled the separation between his real life at school and the brief escape that these weekly sojourns provided.

Why was this man everywhere Henry went? It was bad enough that he disrupted the order of Henry's cohort at university, but to follow him here, to the secret space he went to escape from himself, was too much. From that night on, every time Henry saw Enzo, whether it was in class, in chapel, or walking through the cloisters of the college, he knew that Enzo knew his secret.

***

It was not until the beginning of the Lenten term that Henry decided that something must be done about his unruly new classmate.

They were sitting in their history tutorial, discussing the British Empire with an eminent scholar of modern history, Dr. John Morley. Henry sat on one side of the room, flanked by his group of friends, and Enzo sat on the opposite side, accompanied by his own group.

"Now," Dr. Morley was saying, "I wonder if we might discuss why the British Empire came into existence. What was the point of it?"

Henry, confident that he knew the correct answer, answered immediately. "To spread civilization," he responded.

From the other side of the room, Enzo let out a loud guffaw.

"You have a different opinion, Mr. Negri?" said Dr. Morley.

Enzo smiled coldly and said in a sarcastic tone, "Ah yes, how civilized the British are. What a wonderful gift the empire gives the people of the world: the privilege of working themselves to death on its behalf." He made the remark in a throwaway manner, but he directed his gaze unwaveringly at Henry. Henry understood that the statement had been a challenge: Enzo had thrown down the gauntlet and was waiting for him to pick it up.

Henry blustered forward. "We have shown the black men and the brown men of the world the value of a hard day's work, the rule of law, and the written word. We have brought light to the dark continent." He was sure that this was the correct answer, the answer the professor was looking for. It was what he had always been taught.

Enzo, however, seemed to think differently. "The dark continent indeed!" He scoffed. "Tell that to the men who fought in the trenches in France. Was it Europe or Africa that waged the bloodiest war in history? There is only one dark continent, and we are living on it." The provocative flair of his final statement generated a hum of approval from his comrades.

"If you're suggesting..." Henry stammered, then stopped himself, unsure how to continue from here. He had never needed to defend the incontrovertible goodness of Western civilization before. It had always been self-evident, a given. "And what about...what about the word of the Gospel?" He said finally. "Christian morality? Salvation? I suppose you'd like us all to squat in the dirt like savages!"

A curious expression came over Enzo's face. His eyes bored into Henry with that same recognition that they had had that day Henry had run into him in the nightclub. "Ah yes," he said softly. "I had forgotten how committed you are to Christian morality, Lord Whitridge."

Henry's eyes widened. Only he and Enzo knew the implication of the statement, the source of its irony. Would Enzo go further in revealing what he knew? Would he dare? Terror shot through Henry, freezing him to the spot as he waited for Enzo to continue. Enzo, meanwhile, stared Henry down with his unwavering gaze, seeming to know that, in this moment, he had Henry completely in his power. "Look closer at your own country," he continued finally. "I think you'll find plenty of savagery right here in England."

Henry was speechless. He breathed a sigh of relief that the danger had passed, but Enzo's statement had shaken him to his core, and he could not think of an intelligent response. Eventually, Dr. Morley interjected. "Thank you both, Negri and Whitridge." He turned to Enzo. "You are quite the impassioned speaker, Mr. Negri. I am impressed." To Henry he said nothing.

It was defeat, bitter and blunt. Henry hung his head. He could feel the derision in his classmates' eyes as they looked at him. How easy it had been for Enzo to take him down! And with such cool, efficient ruthlessness! Henry was out of practice as an orator, unused to being challenged on beliefs that had always seemed to him to be common sense. Enzo, on the other hand, had clearly been sharpening his rhetorical sword in preparation for just such an occasion, and he had used the one weapon against which Henry could not stand. Henry's primacy had been toppled. The seemingly solid fundament of his command had been undermined irrevocably.

Something had to be done.

***

Henry was practiced in the art of securing obedience. In school at Eaton, he had grown accustomed to using physical force to beat outliers into submission. The weapon of choice at Eaton had been a slim wooden cane--not the subtlest of techniques, granted, but quite an effective one. Henry had been on the receiving end of its rebuke on occasion, but he had learned quickly that if he submitted to its order, he would soon be the one on top. He had brought his own cane to Cambridge with him, but until now he had kept it away in his closet. His power here was a softer power, relying on the implicit social code that privileged his wealth and status. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Henry was ready to use whatever means necessary to secure his position.

Henry came to Enzo's room that night, alone, armed only with his cane. If he was to impress upon Enzo the extent of his power, he wanted to do it through his strength alone, without the help of his friends.

The door was unlocked. Henry entered the room without knocking to find Enzo sitting at his desk by the window. Enzo looked up. An expression of calculated nonchalance played across his face. His eyes flicked down to the weapon in Henry's hand, then back up to Henry's reddened face. He gave Henry a knowing smile, as if he had been expecting him.

"I suppose you've come to teach me a lesson," he said calmly.

"That's right," Henry replied, walking toward Enzo and standing over him as he sat.

Enzo chuckled. "And how quickly the English gentleman turns to violence! Words proved too difficult, did they? Couldn't win an argument with me, so you thought you'd try to win in the only language you know."

In answer, Henry slapped him in the face, hard, with the back of his hand.

Enzo flinched, but his gaze stayed trained on Henry, reading him. A patch of red shone on his cheek where Henry had struck him. All of a sudden, he laughed out loud. A strange expression came over his face, and he began to speak in slow, deliberate words, as if he knew the devastating effect that each word would have: "Is this how you like your men, Lord Whitridge? Is this what you pay for at the nightclub?"

It was the first time Enzo had ever said it explicitly. It chilled Henry just to hear the words. The muteness that overtook him every time Enzo insinuated about their meeting at the nightclub returned. He felt frozen to the spot. He could not speak of it, not ever, not even alone--to speak it aloud made it real.

Enzo sensed his advantage and pressed forward. "It eats away at you, doesn't it? Henry Whitridge has the world in his hands, but deep down, what is he? A sinner. An outcast. A fairy."

Henry's tongue felt glued to his mouth. He stared at Enzo in petrified fury.

"What are you afraid of most, I wonder?" Enzo pried. "That others might find out? That you'll lose that power you hold so dear? Or perhaps..." Enzo seemed to choose his words carefully, "perhaps you're afraid that deep down, power isn't what you want at all?"

Henry tried to brush the words off of him, but they bit at him with an incessant question. Was it true, he wondered? Was it possible?

Enzo crossed his legs in his chair and looked up at Henry as he stood, stupidly, rooted to the spot. He smiled. He had the full advantage now, and he knew it. "Not all men are made to dominate the world," he observed. "There are other desires, other impulses. I think you've felt it before. In the arms of a strong man...the urge to submit..."

Henry's mind flashed back to his evenings at the nightclub. The sweat, the flesh, the muscles--hot and close, sticky and vulnerable. He recalled the feeling of being enveloped in Clive's body, of letting go of the boundaries between himself and the world, giving in to the visceral togetherness of the experience.

No! No, no, he suppressed the thought. He would not give in to it. He could not. He turned away from Enzo and paced the room at an erratic, agitated pace.

"You have, haven't you?" Enzo pressed on, standing up and approaching Henry. "You know, that's the difference between you and me: we're both queers, but at least I admit it!"

Suddenly, Henry lashed out at Enzo, brandishing the cane at him, meaning to strike him, to silence him from saying those terrible words. But this time, Enzo was prepared for him. He intercepted Henry's blow, grabbing him by the wrist and twisting his arm. Henry grunted in pain and tried to free himself from Enzo's grasp, but he was surprised by Enzo's strength. Enzo may have been thin, but he was muscular, and he had clearly been in fights before. Henry, for all his bravado, had never had come to blows with a real adversary; he had never been in a fight with a man who was not afraid of him. He dropped the cane, which clattered as it landed. Enzo used his leverage to force him to the ground. Henry tripped Enzo, sending him sprawling to the ground on top of him. In only a few seconds, Enzo regained his composure and pinned Henry to the ground underneath him. He grabbed the cane off the ground next to them and pressed it to Henry's neck, keeping him trapped underneath.

It had all happened too quickly. Henry was completely at Enzo's mercy. He tried to break free from the stronghold, but his arms were pinned to his sides underneath Enzo's legs, and the cane pressed against his neck uncomfortably, limiting his breath and making him gulp for air.

"Okay!" He gasped, "You win!"

Enzo stared down at him in furious concentration. "Say it again," he ordered quietly.

"You...you win," Henry faltered.

Enzo smirked. "Let's get one thing straight," he continued, "you're not my boss. I don't play by your rules. And that's how it's going to stay. Do you understand?"

There was nothing else for it. "Yes," Henry assented in a quiet tone. Henry stopped struggling. He had been defeated. There was nothing to do now but to submit to whatever revenge Enzo had in store for him. In truth, there was a seed of relief that had begun to blossom in Henry's consciousness. The decisions were out of his hands, which sat, pinned uselessly to his sides. "What are you going to do to me?" He asked, a tremor in his voice.

Enzo's expression softened, and so did his grip on the cane. Henry gave a sigh of relief as it became easier for him to breathe. He looked up at Enzo anxiously, waiting for his response, but Enzo seemed to be taking his time. He set the cane down by his side. He ran a hand through the fine texture of Henry's sandy brown hair. "I'm going to make you an offer," he answered finally, "and I think you will say yes."

"What is it?"

"I want to fuck you," he said. "I want to make you submit to me."

Henry's eyes widened. His heart began to race--in fear or excitement, he wondered?

"What do you think?" Enzo was saying. "Would you like that? Powerful men, I've notice, so often have a submissive streak."

Henry was struck by the sincerity of Enzo's remark. The indication that Henry would like to submit to Enzo was not an accusation. It was not an expression of derision or a weapon wielded to shame or abuse him. It it was an offer. Enzo continuing studying the smooth, symmetrical contours of Henry's face with his finger, tracing the outline of his jawbone. Henry felt his skin tingle at Enzo's touch. His mind returned to the scenes of forbidden indulgence that he so often banished from his mind. He remembered the feel his lover's hands on his neck, the power of his lover's body, the ecstasy of release. He let the hum of arousal play across his body, and this time, he allowed himself to linger in the sensation, to feel pleasure in it.

But still, it was difficult to bring himself to say that he wanted it. "It doesn't seem like I have much choice, do I?" He offered, hoping that Enzo would take the statement as an invitation.

Enzo was not moved. "No," he said. "I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you tell me that that's what you want, if it is what you want. I want to hear you say please."