GWM - 1. Chapter 1 of 18

Nick

Nick’s letter was bland. But bland looked pretty good in a batch where one -- it could be called a “note”-- could have been scribbled in crayon on torn paper bag. That one said, “I like big salami.” The tortured breathing was implied.
Nick’s letter said, “Hi, I’d like to meet you. We might have a lot in common.” Then there’d been a simple description -- “5'-11", red-haired, athletic.”
Harry answered. Nick wrote back. Soon they were set to meet.
“Stop by my office,” Nick suggested. “It’s private, but public enough so you’ll feel safe.”
He seemed to know Harry had never done this before.
Could he tell Harry had never done anything?
The office was in the Soc. Building, a converted, red-brick dorm. Sociologists didn’t have a lot of pull on campus. The drop-ceilinged lobby was dark, the hallways empty and gloomy. At the crowded department office, Harry barely slipped through the narrowed doorway.
Egg-crate florescents lit the room. A worn secretary hacked a battered keyboard at a surplus desk. The longer Harry waited, the longer she typed.
“Is Nick here?” he finally asked. He didn’t know Nick’s last name. “Dr...?”
The secretary glared at him. Harry repeated his question. The woman thrust her chin toward a peeling door.
It wasn’t what Harry had imagined.
Still, he moved toward Nick’s door. Stacked papers and books threatened to tumble as he passed. The air smelled wet.
He knocked.
A welcoming voice shouted, “Come in! Come in!” and, despite everything, Harry thought this could turn out fine.
But “5'-11", red-haired, athletic,” offers quite a range. Harry had pictured a fairly average, passably good-looking guy like himself. Maybe auburn-haired. Maybe, if he were really lucky, strawberry-blond.
Opening the door, he faced a bald, aging Howdy Doody.
“Come in,” Nick said again. Grinning.
Harry wanted to run, but he’d been raised a gentleman. Slowly entering, he casually left the door open.
Nick quickly shut it.
“Sit,” he said.
At least, it wasn’t, “Roll over.”
Harry sat. In a chair so old that pilots leaving to bomb North Korea had probably strained its seat.
Nick perched on the edge of his cluttered desk. Inches away. On his bulletin board, snapshots traced three red-haired kids from birth through their early teens. There were also pictures of a woman. Along with his mint poly shirt and lobster pants, Nick wore a wedding ring.
Harry started to panic, then realized that was stupid. He just had to talk with the guy. Five minutes. Then he was free.
“You look younger,” Nick began. He’d been silently appraising Harry. “Younger than I thought.”
“Good genes,” Harry muttered.
“Be thankful.” Nick patted his unencumbered head. He seemed at ease, and Harry knew he wasn’t helping any, sitting mainly inert. But conversation suddenly seemed hard.
“It’s an odd name,” Nick went on, pleasantly filling gaps. “For someone your age.”
“It’s Harris, actually. Family name.” He tried to sound interested. Interesting.
Nick grinned.
Harry told himself to relax. This could be endured. If he’d just start talking, politely, he’d be out of there before this was memory.
“Those your kids?” he asked. Indicating the wall.
Nick laughed. “Every one of them.”
“You’re married?” It came out an accusation, and Harry smiled to offset it. “I mean, still?”
Was that better?
Nick simply nodded.
“Your wife know?” Harry went on. He meant to sound curious, but seemed like the Inquisition.
“Yes,” Nick said. Patiently.
He moved from his desk, casually motioned Harry to his feet.
Harry stood, though he didn’t know why.
Nick hugged him.
Harry tensed.
“Relax,” Nick said. Gently massaging Harry’s shoulders. “Or is this all muscle?”
Harry tried to smile.
“It’s all right,” Nick assured him.
He moved to kiss Harry.
Harry turned away.
“Relax,” Nick said again.
His fingertips inched into Harry’s shirt, tenderly stroking his chest.
Harry started to sweat.
He delicately traced Harry’s collarbone.
Harry forgot to breathe.
He began unbuttoning Harry’s shirt.
“I really just came...” Harry started. “I thought we were going to... You said to stop by and talk.”
He wanted to howl, “I’m not that kind of guy!” but realized it was a bit late. Instead, he said, “There’s a secretary outside. She can probably hear.”
“Joy wears a headset under all that hair,” Nick assured him. “She’s always listening to 60s rock. She’s as good as deaf.”
He slipped his hand past Harry’s belt. Eased into his shorts.
Harry jerked back. There was no grace.
“I need to know you first,” Harry insisted. Sure he sounded like a fool.
Nick only smiled. He had a good smile and seemed to know it. Harry pictured himself being debauched on a desk, all for good teeth.
“You’re a good-looking guy,” Nick said.
“I know what I look like.”
“Your notes were wonderful.”
This was a pro.
“How long have you been doing this?” Harry asked.
Nick smiled again.
“How long?”
Nick struck.
“You know why you’re here,” he said. Opening Harry’s shirt. “You know what you need.”
Harry’s chest was bare. His belt buckle popped. He heard his zipper descend.
“Hands off!” he yelped. “Damn it!”
Nick backed away. Hands charmingly in the air.
“We’ll do what you’d like,” he said. Grinning. “If that’s what you’d like.”
“What do you want?” Harry asked. Angry now. Openly. “A wife and kids? Or a lover?”
“Both,” Nick said. Without hesitation. Smiling that smile.
“I’m not like that,” Harry insisted. He was clearly on his way out, but stupidly felt obliged to explain. “I won’t sleep with someone I don’t love.”
Nick only laughed. Kindly. But he kept laughing. Finally, he said, “You’re just not ready.”
Moments later, Harry was outside again. Standing on the wide, green lawn. Warmed by the clear April day.
Feeling very naive.