One Summer at Stevens Point Ch. 02

Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.

I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep that night, and it wasn't just because the bruise on my head prevented me from lying in my favored sleeping position. I knew I'd gotten off lightly--there was nothing to have prevented my trick from beating me to a pulp in the empty locker room, or to have come back with a cop, accusing me of making indecent advances.

It wasn't just around the students and parents at the Institute that I had to be on guard. Even searching for quick, anonymous relief seemed fraught with danger here. I found myself becoming profoundly depressed, not only for myself, but also for the boy who had come on to, then assaulted me. I could only imagine the conflicts that raged within him.

It was probably around one when I finally fell asleep. Inevitably I was awakened around six by the high piping voices of small children going past my door on their way to breakfast. My head throbbed and I knew I'd have to take something for it. I lay in my bed and groaned at the thought of a full day's teaching ahead in my dazed and confused state. There was no point in trying to fall asleep again--I'd have to be up for real in less than an hour.

I decided to try a walk before breakfast. The cool, slightly misty morning air hit my face as I left the dorm, and in spite of myself my spirits begin to lift. The bad taste of the events of yesterday afternoon finally began to fade. Needless to say, I hadn't cum during yesterday's abortive encounter. I sighed as I realized that, despite everything, I was still incurably, ragingly horny. Would I never learn? Shaking my head, I began to walk toward the athletic fields.

I kept to the sidewalk at the edge of the large grassy rectangle that held the Stevens Point outdoor track. Even at this early hour there was already someone on it, setting a brisk pace. It was a man, dressed only in a pair of turquoise running shorts. The color seemed startlingly bright in the morning light and emphasized the top condition of his body. He drew close and I noted that the hair on his chest was peppered with gray. Not bad looking for an old guy, quite nice, in fact...

I was shaken out of my increasingly lustful reverie by a voice calling my name.

"Good morning, Mr. Hewitt!" The figure raised one arm in a friendly wave.

The runner knew who I was. I peered closely at his face for the first time and saw eyes that even at this distance were blue, the face framed by curly, graying hair and beard.

It was one of the parents in my ten o'clock master class--Molly's dad. I desperately searched my brain for his name, hoping he hadn't noticed that I'd been checking him out.

The man had stopped on the track opposite where I was on the sidewalk, breathing hard, glistening with sweat, his muscular chest rising and falling. I was very conscious of his superb physique. Even though I was probably ten or twelve years younger I felt flabby and inferior.

"Mr. Wagner." I'd finally remembered his name. It was, after all, only the second day of Institute.

"Call me Mike, please. You're out early."

"So are you. Molly still asleep?"

Mike Wagner was shaking out his legs, corded with muscle.

"No, she's eating breakfast. One of the other moms down the hall was nice enough to take her, so I could get in my daily run. I usually do it before she gets up, but today I overslept."

"You're very dedicated." Feeling bold, I added, "It shows."

Molly's father smiled. "Thanks. It gets me out of bed in the morning."

There was a pause. I found myself wanting to keep the conversation going. I said with mock severity, "I hope you and Molly did her assignment last night."

Mike nodded vigorously. "Oh yes sir. Twenty-five times on 'the jungle.'" "The jungle" was the trickiest passage in the movement of the Vivaldi Concerto Molly was playing. "Setting the metronome a little faster each time. She complained a bit, but we did it."

"Good," I said. "We'll hear that first today."

Mike grimaced a bit. "I hope I got it right. Lois--my late wife--was a musician herself. Since she's been gone I've often wondered whether I was really helping Molly. I've worried a lot that I was messing her up."

I sensed he was talking about more than violin playing. Some impulse made me answer in kind. "You're doing a great job with her. I can tell she's having the time of her life here this week. She really looks up to you." I stopped, wondering whether I'd said too much.

Mike Wagner was looking at me with an unreadable expression. "Thanks. That means a lot to me." He left the track and came toward me. I kept my eyes on his face with a conscious effort, but the impact of his presence was palpable. My breathing quickened and I felt lightheaded.

"You know, I've come to Stevens Point several years, and Molly's had a different teacher every year. None of them have been bad, and some of them have been really good. But you're the best ever." He reached out and grasped my upper arm, startling me. "Mr. Hewitt, it's a privilege for Molly and me to work with you."

"Well, thank you," I managed. "And call me Alan."

Still gripping my shoulder, Mike offered his other hand. I shook it, dazed by his smile and charisma. "Okay, Alan. But Molly's still going to call you Mr. Hewitt. I've got to finish my run. See you in class."

Something changed in our relationship after that early morning conversation, though the lessons with Molly went on pretty much the same. I worked her hard in the ten or twelve minutes I had with her every morning, and gave her an assignment for each evening, tempering my demands with humor. Molly laughed a lot, quite unfazed by my attempts at sternness.

Occasionally, though, I would catch sight of Mike, not watching his daughter or the teaching point I was trying to illustrate, but me. I should have been flattered that he was following my every move so intently, but I found it disturbing. It got so I avoided looking in his direction while teaching his daughter, not that that was easy. Mike came to class every morning dressed in a T-shirt or polo shirt, and shorts that showed off his narrow hips and long, sinewy legs. One day he wore a tank top, and I even caught one or two of the mothers of the other students eyeing him covertly. If only they knew the teacher felt the same way.

I tried to relieve my tensions in the way I usually did, by swimming. I'd thought about not going back to the Y but decided what the hell. The chances were that I wouldn't see the blond boy who had decked me, and even if I did, he probably wasn't eager for another encounter either. As it turned out, I never saw him again. So I had to content myself with Jack Gormley in his Speedos. I found myself idly speculating about my chances with him. But it wasn't in me deliberately to try and disrupt a long-term relationship, no matter what unconscious signals Jack might be sending out.

Wednesday evening of Institute week I was slated to play on a faculty recital. As I was practicing my piece with the Institute accompanist in the gymnasium that afternoon, I sensed someone sitting in the very back, listening. After casting a few glances in that direction I realized it was Mike. I didn't acknowledge him, but noticed that he stayed until I had finished playing.

Performing in public has always been a difficult experience for me, even when I know the audience is mostly children and parents, and safely uncritical. I was shaking, palms sweaty when I walked out onstage, and counted myself lucky to get through my piece without a major disaster. I bowed and left, feeling my usual mixture of relief that it was over, and annoyance that my nerves had torpedoed some of my best intentions.

I escaped the congratulations as soon as I could--I never felt I deserved them--and took refuge in my dorm room. During the year in Chicago, chilling out after a performance usually meant going out, usually to a bar, or if I were really keyed up, to one of the bathhouses. Drinking and sex were usually enough to keep me from dwelling on the performance just past, replaying the imperfections over and over in my mind like a defective CD. Of course, doing such things here was out of the question.

My moody thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a knock on my door. I wasn't expecting anybody to stop by. I fervently hoped it wasn't one of the adult trainees in the teacher development course I was doing this week--they could easily stay for an hour or more, plying me with questions I'd heard countless times before, and that could easily have been taken care of in class.

I opened the door. Mike Wagner stood there, smiling. He was dressed a bit more formally than usual, in a short-sleeved dress shirt and khakis. In one hand he held two clear plastic cups; in the other, a bottle of scotch.

"I was hoping you'd be here," he said. "I thought I'd offer to throw a little reception, in honor of your wonderful performance."

Taken by surprise, I blushed and stammered. "Aw Mike, you didn't have to do that."

"I know. I wanted to. Do you have any ice? I rented a refrigerator for the week--I can go back to my room and get some if you don't have any."

"I have some. This is damn nice of you."

"So I can come in, before someone sees me with this illegal contraband?"

Settled in with our Scotches, him in the one chair in the room, me sitting on the bed, Mike raised his drink. "To you, Alan." He swallowed.

"Thanks," I said. I raised my plastic cup in turn. "To children, and parents who care enough to give them the gift of music."

Mike said nothing, but smiled as he raised his glass. We drank again. The strong liquor started to go to my head. The top two buttons on Mike's shirt were unbuttoned, and I caught myself staring at the hair on his chest peeking out through the opening.

"Not that it's any of my business, but where's Molly tonight?"

"She's become great pals with one of the other little girls in your class--Sarah Wilkes. They decided they wanted to do a slumber party. Sarah's mom is great, she said, sure, come on over. She told me she's going to sit in the dorm lounge and watch TV until they fall asleep. Knowing Molly, she's in for a long night," Mike chuckled.

He paused, then added, "Mrs. Wilkes is a single mom--divorced. I've caught her looking at me once or twice this week as if she'd like to invite _me_ over for a slumber party." He laughed self-consciously.

"Well, you are one of the few unattached men around here." Imbibing had loosened my tongue, and it seemed I was on a roll, for I continued, "Think you'll ever marry again, Mike?"

Mike took a long time to answer, staring into space. Maybe he was feeling the buzz too. "No," he said, finally. After a pause, he added, "I don't think I have it in me."

"Do you ever think Molly might need a mother?" I regretted asking the question as soon as the words had left my lips. Mike raised his head and looked at me, not angry or offended as I had expected, but with a strange and sorrowful expression.

"It's weird when you're widowed and have a kid," he said. "Especially here, no one sees you as anything except a parent. Molly's dad. Sarah's mom. You can't imagine how many people have said that to me. My own parents are the worst. Get married again for the sake of the child, they say. No one thinks about whether it would be good for me."

"Mike, I'm sorry," I said, abashed. "I was out of line."

He shook his head. "It's okay. You just touched a nerve, that's all."

We sat in silence and sipped our drinks. Soon Mike drained his plastic cup and rose. "Guess I'd better turn in."

"So soon?" I bitterly regretted what I'd said earlier.

Mike smiled. "Alan, it's okay, really. It's just that I'm rather looking forward to a night by myself in the room."

"Thanks for the Scotch. That was very thoughtful," I said, still feeling like I'd ruined the evening.

"Don't mention it. And keep the rest. You may need it after Friday's grand finale."

We were both standing, facing each other. I didn't know exactly what I was expecting, and Mike seemed irresolute as well. Then he clapped me heartily on the shoulder. "Good night, Alan," he said, and was gone.

I stood, feeling as if a chance to unravel whatever it was that was going on between us had been lost.

Halfway through Institute week it always seems as if it will never end, but finally it was Friday. The grand finale, the group concert of all the Institute violin students, would take place at night.

I wasn't jaded yet like some of the veteran teachers, and I still found the spectacle of hundreds of violin students standing in the UWSP gymnasium, playing the Suzuki songs in unison, young and old together, to be a thrilling experience. Still, it had turned out to be a rather strange week, and the distractions definitely affected my playing. I found myself wandering off course during some of the songs, easy ones that I could play in my sleep. I hurriedly looked around to see if any of the other teachers playing near me had noticed. My performer's ego had apparently survived the week intact, at any rate.

The final concert being over didn't mean that I was finished yet. I still had to read through observations that the members of my teacher course had written about classes they'd watched that day. Back in my room, I looked at the pile of sheets on my desk, sighed and set to work. Then there was the task of returning them, since we had already met for the last time and I wouldn't see my trainees again before they left. Fortunately, most of them were in the same dorm I was in, so I walked up and down the hallways, sliding papers under room doors, hurrying away so as not to get into conversations. When I was done at last, it was almost midnight. The heat wave that had rolled into Stevens Point in the last day or so showed no signs of letting up, and the room was warm and close. I really needed another shower before I turned in.

As I walked down the hall toward the men's bathroom, soap, shampoo and towel in hand, I heard water running. My first reaction was annoyance. I'd waited until now to take a shower precisely so that I could have some privacy. I heaved a sigh, opened the door and stepped into the bathroom. There was a bathrobe hung on one of the hooks outside the entrance to the communal shower. I put my stuff down on the tiled floor, peeled off my T-shirt and gym shorts, and hung my clothes and my towel on another hook.

If the Stevens Point men's dorm had been cruisy, the shower in this bathroom might have been an interesting place because it was so small. There were just four shower heads, set close together. A man stood under the spray rushing out of the one furthest from the entrance. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a slender waist. His legs were lean and roped with muscle, his buttocks dimpled. He turned at that moment. It was Mike Wagner.

I drew in my breath sharply. Mike seemed a bit taken aback as well, but nodded and said hello. Trying to stay calm, I turned on the spray and began to soap myself, keeping my back to Mike. I willed myself not to stare at his body, even though I wanted to, desperately.

Mike, though, began to make conversation. "Great concert, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was," I answered, half wishing he would finish up and leave, at the same time wishing he would stay.

"Lord, it's hot tonight. I waited till now to take a shower. Hate it when half the world's walking through this bathroom. Reminds me of high school gym class."

I smiled weakly, not saying anything. At that moment I didn't need to be reminded of high school gym class and its frustrations.

"Besides, some of the guys on this hall shouldn't be allowed to take their clothes off in public."

A bubble of astonished laughter escaped from me, and I looked at Mike. There was something in his smile that made me hold his gaze.

"Present company excepted, of course, Alan."

My throat felt dry. "Thanks," I managed. To my horror I felt myself getting hard. Here I was, giving myself away in front of the father of one of my students. I turned away again and began to rinse off. I had to finish up and get out of here.

"Alan?"

"What?" I said, brusquely.

"Could I borrow some of your shampoo? I forgot to bring mine."

There wasn't any way to refuse. With a sigh I picked up my bottle and turned. Mike was facing me, and my eyes couldn't stop from wandering down to the area below his flat stomach. His crotch was forested with a dense mass of pubic hair, out of which rose a long, uncut, and definitely stiffening cock.

The sight of his arousal sent a jolt of electricity through me. I looked up, and our eyes met and locked. So the signals I thought I'd been receiving from this man all week were real. What was I going to do about it? Frantic voices in my brain reminded me of where I was, and the trouble I could bring upon myself.

The desire and frustration that I had brought with me to the Institute and that had increased during the past few days were too much, though. As if in a dream I stepped closer. I saw my hand reach out and grasp what was being offered, my brain half expecting Mike to pull away, shouting in indignant protest.

Nothing happened. I breathed in the steamy heat of the shower, felt the water splash over my skin. I felt the hard smooth flesh of Mike's dick in my palm, watched the rounded purple head emerge from the foreskin as I slowly moved my hand back and forth.

I looked in Mike's face again. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. There was no doubt that he was enjoying this. Feeling bolder, I moved closer and put one arm around him. His own arms rose and encircled me in a tight, wet embrace. Trapped between our bodies, our hard cocks pressed against one another.

"Come to my room," I whispered in his ear.

I'd said the wrong thing. Mike's eyes flew open and an expression of alarm appeared on his face. He shook his head.

"I can't. I've got to get back to Molly."

He pulled himself from my grasp and hurriedly stepped from the shower into the drying area, grabbing his towel and rubbing himself in quick, jerky motions. Completely at a loss, I stood watching him, soap still on my body, my arousal forgotten.

"Mike, what's the matter?"

He was putting on his bathrobe.

"I'm sorry, Alan. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry... It's just--"

Frustration made me speak without thinking. "It's just what, Mike? It's just that you were leading me on?"

"Shh. Please--not so loud." Mike tied the belt of his robe around his waist. "Let's forget it. Good night."

He flung open the bathroom door and almost knocked over a sleepy-eyed man coming to brush his teeth. He disappeared as the new arrival looked at me, startled. I realized I was standing stark naked, dripping water and suds. There was nothing to do but get back in the shower.

TO BE CONTINUED