Chapter 5 – Chapter 5

The next day, there was a small envelope in my student mailbox. It was addressed to "Mr. Denton" in tidy script and contained a note crafted with the simple query of "Next Tuesday at 5:15?" in the same tidy script. I quickly wrote "Yes," closed the notecard, and slipped it under his office door.

I knew it wasn't a date, but I prepared like it was. At about 4:30, I shaved and showered. While my hair was wet, I added product and styled it just enough that it looked like I tried but not too hard. After deodorizing my armpits, I ran a finger of cologne down the middle of me, from my Adam's apple to my navel. I dressed in my nicest jeans, which were still a bit tattered, and a new blue oxford I had purchased because it accented the deep blue of my eyes.

He was already seated when I arrived, shaking the snow from my hair and rubbing my cold hands together.

He stood and extended his hand. "Harold."

I took his hand and pulled him into me, patting him on the back for whomever was noticing, but inhaling deeply so the smell of him filled my eager nostrils. "Professor Masters."

We sat. When he ordered his neat Gin, I aped him and asked for the same.

"You should call me Jackson," he said. "You're no longer my student, so we meet in friendship. My friends call me Jackson, not Professor Masters."

"Not Jax?"

"Jackson."

"Bucky?"

"Jackson."

"You can call me Rip if I can call you Bucky."

"I'll call you Harold," he said, smiling at my impertinence. "You'll call me Jackson."

He again flirted with his drink, running his tongue just over the rim of the glass. I almost chided him about "rimming," but I chose discretion instead. I suspected he didn't know what rimming was, and I didn't want to scandalize him by explaining it.

I watched his hand, not his tongue. I had to stop myself from reaching out and running a fingertip through the whorl of hair with which I had previously played.

"You have incredible hands," I said, instead.

"Thank you," he answered, laughing. "I've long wondered whether I should abandon the law and become a hand model."

I was surprised by his cheekiness. I was more surprised by the wide smile that punctuated the end of his sentence. It was an unguarded smile, not the guarded one that betrayed his concern about his teeth. It was a mischievous, radiating smile.

I noted the dimples.

More than that, I noted how juicy and red his lips were. I knew that later, when I was alone, I'd think of those lips, not on me, but against mine. I was instantly obsessed with the idea of kissing him, of feeling those juicy, red lips against mine, knowing they'd be firm and strong, not soft or supple.

When his visage changed, I looked into his eyes and saw a question. Anticipating it, I said, "I was noticing your lips, not your teeth. I don't think I had ever noticed your lips before. They're beautiful."

He started to smile widely again, but caught himself. Then, some seriousness drifted over his face and he said, "Thank you, I guess."

"Don't guess, it was a compliment."

"Yes, but a bit of an odd one. I mean, most men wouldn't say such a thing."

"I'm glad I'm not most men," I said, staring into his eyes as I raised my glass to my mouth, took a big swig, and placed it back on the table.

"Tell me about yourself," he said.

I did, although there was not much to tell. I had grown up in Lake Forest, Illinois, the youngest of four boys. My Democrat parents didn't fit well in Lake Forest, but both were on the faculty at Lake Forest College, so their liberalism was tolerated as expected, even if alien.

My father and brothers were all sports hounds. I was not, so I didn't fit well with the men in our family. While they played and watched, I spent time with my mother.

When they weren't playing, we were in a constant state of attack and counter-attack. The youngest, I kept at it the longest, which is how I wound up as "Rip."

I started noticing that I noticed boys when I was in middle school and we all started awakening to sexuality and sexual urges. Even when I was dating girls, I was noticing boys.

But, I didn't let anyone else know. I was great at playing a role and at keeping secrets.

I learned to control where I looked. No one could notice what I was noticing.

My brothers all went to Illinois. I wanted to get out of and away from Lake Forest, so I went to Oberlin. At Oberlin, I found a home in Political Thought, so I decided to be a lawyer and then to be a government lawyer.

At Oberlin, I finally acted on who I had been noticing. Once I acted, I acted and acted and acted.

"What about you?" I asked.

"I'm an only child. My parents pushed me pretty hard from the beginning, toward books and away from sports. I was pretty driven. I didn't really develop a social circle. I mean, I had a lot of people with whom I was friendly in high school, but I didn't really have friends the way most kids have friends when they're in high school. At Duke, the cycle repeated itself. At Harvard, it was same thing. So, I'm thirty-one years old, married to my only real friend, and the father of two girls."

"I'm a real friend," I said, although I doubted my words. I had an ulterior motive, and it was a very selfish one.

"You're right. I'm sorry, and I sit corrected. I'm thirty-one years old, and married to one of my only real friends."

"There was a kid in my high school who was an only child. He didn't make friends easily."

"I think only children learn to be alone. I know I did. My parents were busy people, and — when they weren't busy — they thought children should be small versions of adults. I was a pretty adult child, seen but not heard, at least not until asked to be heard."

When it was time to leave, I asked if I could borrow his scarf. "Of course," he answered, without asking why. If he had asked, I don't know what I would have said. I wanted it because it smelled like him. And, I wasn't borrowing it; I was taking it and keeping it, so I could smell him whenever I needed or wanted to smell him.

When we hugged at the door, he hugged me back a little. I was making progress.

"Same time next week?" I asked, as his hand gripped the knob.

"Sure," he answered, pulling the door ajar, but then stopping and looking back at me. "You know, not being my student doesn't mean you can't visit my office."

"I'll stop by later this week."

"Cool."

"Cool?"

"Cool."