And His Eyes Be as Blue as the Sea

(Some very kind people asked me to write another chapter in this story. So here it is. I hope it's okay. It's dedicated to you with thanks)

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Alton of the Golden Sun Hair lay on his narrow bed in Ellington 312, of his empty dorm. He had been trying to masturbate. He was half way through his sophomore year here and wondered with more than a little worry if he was becoming impotent already. It was foolish, he thought. There, naked. In the too well heated room. He could dress and go out in the snow. It was close to Christmas. He had lost his girl. He had embarrassed himself before his teacher. He had trusted the man. Who had had no time for him. He had had it made for such a long time now.

Girls had been wanting to be with him from grammar school on. He was immensely kind. As much that as he was lovely. And he was very much indeed lovely. He had taken it for granted then. When he had sworn long ago he would never do so. It had just been jacking with a friend. They had both been a little drunk—Alton's parents were going through a rancorous divorce, which had torn Alton up, for he loved them both; they were in such pain and he could do nothing about it. Not his smile. Not his upbeat words. Not his finding a place to stand, and anyone else who wanted, when the skies grew in from all sides and began to press tightly.

And he had thought Jo was to be his for life. And he to be hers. He had told her about him and Matthew as a kind of "see what I'm going through?" kind of way with his eyes at best puppy dog let's play attention. Her face went deathly white, more pale than usual. She had turned from him, gotten off his bed, and walked away. He was stunned and angry and hurt and baffled. "Guys do it sometimes," he said after her, forgetting to stand up. Doubting if his legs would support him.

"They do when they're ten and compare pee pees." And she said it like halls of emptiness she was walking down. She would never get to the end of that hall, which was his memory of her. She would never be out of his memory. Walking out of it second by revered second, but never gone entirely. If she had only shut his room door a bit less quietly.

He had wept for a time. As he had wept now. And he now stood up and went to the narrow window at the end of his bed, looking out at the snow. He had brought her a Christmas present, had saved for it for a long time—a necklace golden with a golden heart in its center and her initials on the back of it. Foolish, the whole thing, foolish and goo goo eyes and all of that when he had done nothing to hurt anybody. He had been hurt. Excessively. He had been hurt by Matt who really started the jack off thing with him, and he had been hurt by his favorite teacher who just had no time at all for him thank you very much. He had been hurt by Jo who had understood other things he had told her, and he had done the same for her. She was not a virgin when she met him. Well, he was not gay. He was just still alone.

The snow was getting heavier. He wished his teacher was home alone and sitting there in front of the TV feeling awful. He wished the same for Jo. And his parents could just tear each other to ribbons for all he cared; take the damned case to the Supreme Court. He could kill Matthew. He fell back on the bed and could kill him. He could nail him to the wall with one hand and he could say, hey, let me show you what five minutes of stupid drunken fun can do to a person; you've always been a lunkhead, so let me do it on grounds that you would understand.

He put his hands to his head and felt like screaming. So since there was no one around, he did just that. At the top of his lungs. Searing them. At the top most further of his lungs. Firing them. He beat his right hand against the wall and he pushed at the bed and he pushed at his limp cock that Jo had so loved and in which he had taken such pride, and he said dammit work for me, dammit give me one or two seconds can you do that do you think? He pulled his hands to his sides. He pressed his butt against the bed and arched his back. Sometimes he could get a hard on that way if he had jacked off just before. No, and he clamped his hips hard and he held the limp penis and he gave up.

Hey, Matthew, you dork, where the hell did you go to as well? Then he went to his desk, opened the top drawer, looked at the Christmas wrapped (by a lady at the shop; he never could wrap presents at all; he was wondering now if he could do anything at all right—his high grades, his popularity, his friendliness, his feeling well and centered in himself, his unwavering conviction that he was totally himself, no identity problems, no incessant longings for what and who could never be there. He pulled out the package. The present for Jo. And he tossed it in the metal trashcan by the desk chair.

God, it was silly. He sat on his bed. He was tired and immensely confused and he thought he might be gay and what did that portend in this little town in the South? Well, it portended getting beaten up every now and then, and it portended, for him at least, being confused as hell about his sexuality and about every other thing he had ever taken for granted about himself and the world—there, he stopped, taken for granted. He had one failing before all of this crushed in on him—he was superstitious. Not overly so. Not even mildly so. There were just certain things he had kept in mind, at the back of his mind, not to ever do, and this was the main one and he had broken it, maybe recently, maybe with Jo, but maybe further back. Maybe he was living on borrowed time.

He stood up and slapped his face like in the Home Alone movie. God, melodrama and ridiculous stupid thoughts. I'm a clown, he thought. And what he should do is to call up old Matthew's house. Old friend Matthew who he had spanked the monkey with in a night of revelry that was to be unsurpassed in the history of the world. It had been simple. They had toasted to Alton's parents' divorce and the eighty thousand other things adults do to fuck up your life. Then they had left Tony's and they had gone back to Alton's room—Matt had a roomie—and they had crashed on the bed. It had been late at night. Alton had woken to Matt's jacking himself at the edge of the bed. Alton did three double takes and asked what in the name of God are you doing, Matt? Matt had his jeans off and his shoes and socks. Still had a T-Shirt on.

What's it look like, Ace? Matthew had said. But—Alton asked—what for? And Matt had told him he was drunk and he was in love and he didn't know what to do about it except pretend and maybe that that was the only way some people can love is to pretend because they know they will make an ass of themselves if they say it to the person they love and they'll die if that happens, Alton, they'll die if that happens. Matt wept and he came at the same time. He hadn't said the words as well as Alton now remembered them, but the message was received. And Alton pulled away as his friend said this and then came and apologized for messing up the bed and he would go get a towel and a washrag, said as Matt stumbled still loaded to the bathroom.

He came back, this big friendly bear of a young man, and started wiping up the bed spread and the sheet. Alton had gone to his desk chair. He had his back to Matt and the bed. Alton had lit a cigarette. His mouth burned. And his stomach was queasy, and it was more than he had drunk too much. It took Matt a while. Finally his friend sat on the edge of the bed again, said he was sorry, and he would replace the bedspread and sheets tomorrow. Alton managed a wave of the hand that said not necessary. The silence was the kind of awkwardness. Maybe fifteen minutes went by. Matt said, well, now you know and now it's good bye hey hey?, with that stupid little Yogi Bear laugh Matt used when he was in a goofy mood, or in this case a sad and desperate one. And Alton said to Matt who he heard preparing to leave, can you do it again? What? Matt asked. Alton repeated his question. He sounded so silly and so scared and so final. Matt said, you mean...?

Alton didn't say anything. Just got up. Went to the bed and sat beside Matt. The moonlight was full. A small desk light Alton always kept burning at night even when he slept. Even when Jo slept over. She said it was to keep the night monsters away, and that, she had added, was one of the innumerable endearing qualities about Alton of the Sun Gold Hair. Alton was still in his street clothes. He unzipped his jeans. Stood up and took them off, pushed them and his briefs down to his ankles and then feeling like the Bozo of the Universe, sat back down, and said, well? And Matt said, you're kidding. Alton said well, Matthew, at this point you have enough on me to blackmail me for the rest of my life and to make a laughing stock out of me, to boot. Matt said, I would never do that, and he meant it like saying it in a caring way, but he belched then, could not help it.

They sat there. And Matt had eased him and said hey, it's not like going to the dentists' for God's sake, relax, though Alton could feel Matthew as tense and as nervous as the first man on the moon must have been. And eventually they had jacked off. Each the other. And they had cum all over each other and the bed. Matt and Alton were panting and lying crosswise on the bed, their heads against the wall. Go home, Alton said. Matthew said, see what I mean? See, Alton, it's like-I love you, I've loved you since eleventh grade. I've loved you all the moments in university. My heart skips when I see you. But you're always with Jo. Your hands in each other's back pockets and it kills me, man, it just kills me.

Go, said Alton, we were drunk, curious, forget it. Matt was already dressing. He asked Alton if he was really sure and Alton nodded. Matt said, as he got to the door, I've got my reality now and it will be the only piece of reality I'll remember and hide in and if that's soap opera shit well so be it, because that's the way I feel—I don't really know whether to thank you or—And Matthew left. He closed the door as gently as had Jo.

Alton knew what Matthew was going to say. Something along the lines—or kill you. And now impotent former golden boy sat on his bed, quite alone, and he wondered if he could change course instructors so he wouldn't have to see that teacher he had humiliated himself just a few hours ago. Maybe he would call him. Maybe he would call him and say, hey, you know what it's like? To try to really talk with someone and they don't even half-way look at you? And they can't wait to rush you out the door? Nope. Not you. You're smart and mysterious and strange as in unique, and I love being in your class cause you see things I have never heard from another teacher ever, I mean you really go off the rails at times, off into cloud kookoo land sometimes, but dammit you made me think and now you hate me or worse have forgotten me altogether—be me for a while, teach, he thought, all you people who think you have jolly well got it made in the shade with a spade, holier than thous, and you come down here where we live, we screwed up little farts live---oh fuck it just fuck it---

He dressed, put on a heavy coat and went out the door, down the corridor of pale color, and closed forever doors, down the metal staircase, out to the empty lobby. Rotten thing, you get up your nerve, and they throw it back in your face, he thought, as he slammed open the door to the cold snowy night, GOD!!