(by Edward Zeusgany and Alex Anders, © copyright 1998, all rights reserved)

The boys were milling about the mess hall waiting to be summoned for supper. Talking in small and larger groups, they were looking around, fidgeting. Teenagers are almost always ready to eat, and Bruce was right with them. It was the third day of summer camp.

He was chatting with his cabin mates. He knew that he was popular because he was cute with his goofy grin and happy disposition and odd habits, like rapidly patting himself on the chest with both hands or sticking his chin into the neck opening of his T-shirt. And his blue-black, wavy hair would shine in the sun. He liked being liked.

Bruce noticed the arrival of the waterfront director. Steve commanded attention, partly because of his position, that in the boys’ eyes was at least equal to that of the camp director. But he was much better looking. You could tell at once that he was athletic. lean and muscular, with curly, light brown hair on his head, chest, arms and legs. At 24 he represented what the boys hoped to be like someday, or what they had reluctantly given up hoping for.

So when Steve wandered over and suggested to him that they might take out a canoe after supper, he readily agreed. His chums commented on his good fortune, but it did not hold their interest for long. The screen doors were unhooked and everyone streamed in, the smell of chicken and peas heavy in the air.

Boating was one of the regular early evening pastimes. If you chose a rowboat, you didn’t have to change into a bathing suit. Suits were required for canoes because of the greater risk of capsizing. So it was in Speedos that Bruce arrived at the dock. Steve was waiting for him.

Steve said that they would take number two. Everyone considered that to be the best canoe. It was one of the few wood and canvas canoes left. The rest were aluminum, long and broad. Number two was, in comparison, small and sleek, with mahogany trim at the bow and stern.

Together they hoisted the canoe off the rack in the waterfront lodge and down the launching dock to the water. Down stream the river was dammed, flooding the meadow and making a pond, wide at the waterfront, but gradually tapering in the distance where the river took a turn. The high points, left as islands, had become wooded as were the banks.

The boaters were required to keep in view of the lodge, unless given permission to go further. Since the waterfront director was the giver of permissions, they headed straight out and were soon behind First Island, then Second and Third. Steve, of course, was in the stern, the captain of the ship, Bruce was the crew.

Bruce was told to stow his paddle as they glided into a wide cove at the rear of the Island. The sun was spilling in and the water soon became still. Steve suggested a rest, abandoning his paddling position to sit in the bottom of the canoe and leaning back his legs akimbo. In order to do the same, Bruce had to turn, facing the stern. Steve commented about how peaceful it was, Bruce agreed. They talked for a while.

Steve patted the bottom of the canoe in front of him, between his legs. “Why don’t you move up here?” Bruce did, bent over and carefully so not to tip over the canoe. He settled down, his back to the young man. Bruce felt Steve’s hands on his shoulders, strong and soft at the same time. Steve’s thumbs massaged the back of his neck. It felt good.

After a light back rub, Steve eased him back to rest against the young man’s body. Steve touched his arms, wrists and hands and even his fingers, taking each one in turn. Then the hands were on his chest and under his arms.

“Do you like that?” Steve asked him.

“I love it.” Bruce answered.

“Me too.” He felt Steve’s words as warm breath on his cheek as well as in his ear.

Steve’s touch moved lower, over his stomach. Bruce watched as the young man’s fingers came to his bathing suit The young man turned over the top edge of nylon exposing the bow knot that held the draw string tight. “How about untying that?”

*****

In an instant many thoughts went through Bruce’s mind. A second before, he had expected Steve to untie the knot himself, to push his suit down, to touch him, later, to rinse his hands in the river, which he could easily do without moving at all. That would have been all right. It would just be something that happened to him. He wouldn’t really be responsible for it. But this was a choice, and he knew at once what the choice meant.

If he said, no, or merely did nothing, in a few minutes Steve would suggest that they return to camp. They would put the canoe away and that would be that. The waterfront director would still be friendly towards him, as he was to the other campers. But there would be nothing special between them.

If he untied the knot, he was saying that he wanted it. Not only yes to what he had imagined at first, but yes to everything else that would follow in the days to come. He didn’t even know what all of that would be, not in specifics anyway. It was this uncertainty that made him apprehensive. What would Steve want of him tomorrow and the day after. Untying the knot would mean that he was giving himself to this young man. Of course, he could refuse to do something, but he knew that he wouldn’t. If he acted, a bargain was being struck.

Time was passing, his fingers went to his waist. He took hold of the loose ends of the draw string and pulled.

*****

Water lilies fringed the shaded shore, Where we had drifted, drifted close. The ripples of our craft dispersed, I rinsed my hand in the tepid surface Watched milky substance stream away, Then sink toward cooler waters low. Were there fresh laid fish eggs waiting, I proposed, a merlad would result. And when he had grown, Like a minnow from Capri Would entice me to the depths. In his embrace, lip locked, Forgetting needs above, I might find there dreamy rest.

*****

Perhaps you hope that they lived happily ever after. That didn’t happen. They had a nice summer. The care they had to take made everything more exciting, and they had been careful enough.

Summer ended. They did not live near each other. Steve wrote several rather impersonal letters, not knowing who might read them. Bruce answered once. He wanted to answer the others, but he was a kid, sometimes lazy, sometimes forgetful, sometimes indifferent. At other times he keenly longed to see Steve again, but how could they get together. The longer he waited to write, the more guilty he felt, the less he wanted to try to explain his delay.

Then he heard that Steve had gotten into trouble. Then it was in the newspaper. Then his parents asked him if that wasn’t the young man who had written to him. They wanted to know if Steve had done anything to him. “Of course not,” he said with the right amount of disdain; not too much, not too little; “I’m not interested in that sort of thing.” It really scared him. Would the police want to question him?

They didn’t as it turned out. Steve was sentenced to twenty years. Fear pushed Bruce into a shell of sorts. As much as possible, he shut down his sexuality. Whatever opportunities he might have had with attractive young men he shunned and his demeanor made advances unlikely. This is how he lived his life through high school.

But when he reached college, having attainted the age of eighteen, he joined the most radical of the gay groups. He was surprised at the extent of his anger. In his conscious mind, he did not relate it to the theft of his God given feelings. He saw his previous adjustments as no more than what a prudent person would do under the circumstances thrust upon him. He participated in every demonstration or action and latter in his college career, led them. He hated those, who had stolen from him, as much as they hated him.

As for his love life, Bruce was one of those whose physical ideal never changed. He had a relationship with a graduate student who bore a resemblance to Clark Kent. After graduation, in New York City as an intern in a national gay political organization and later as a paid member of the staff, he had relationships with men his own age.

In his early thirties, he took a position with a public relations firm. His boy friends were still in their mid twenties. As he got older, the length of time when he was between relationships got longer. Shortly after the age of fifty, he formed an association with a companionable man who was nearly the same age as himself. They had similar tastes and interests, they looked after each other, and if either one of them got lucky, well, that was OK.

Now he was less active politically. He contributed money sometimes, wrote to members of congress occasionally, was ready to help if a good opportunity presented itself. The fire of his rage was banked, but not out.

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