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guard.”
    â€œFuck me again.”
    â€œI will. I promise you I will. But now you get home. We don’t need that kind of trouble. Go on. Get dressed.”
    I walked home in the gray dawn, listening to the chickadees stirring in the pine trees, and climbed in through my bedroom window, as I always did when I’d been out exploring at night. The house was silent, and I slept until nine. There were a few jokes at my expense, good-natured raillery about how seedy I was looking, how they could smell whiskey on my breath, a suggestion that I must have a sweetheart down in town. I laughed and kept my own counsel.

II
    FOR TWO YEARS, BETWEEN MY 19TH BIRTHDAY AND THE outbreak of war, I dedicated myself to the art of fucking with an application that, had I brought it to my working life, might have made me a rich man. I grew stronger in my body, thanks to swimming and riding and running and the regular exercise I took in the bedroom. My body became harder. The hair on my head became, alas, a little thinner; at the age of 21 I already had a pronounced widow’s peak, and was receding at the temples. But the hair on my body spread and grew thicker, creeping up from my belly to my chest, around my nipples. It was never as thick and wiry as Mick’s, and it was several shades darker than the hair on my head—but there it was, extending down my thighs and over my ass, filling the crack that once, when Mick first tasted it, had been almost bare. I became a man—in my body, at least, if not in my mind.
    I returned often to Mick at the White Horse, and he became my tutor, my mentor, and a more admirable moral guide than you might have thought. He taught me to
observe the conventions of New England life, to behave like a gentleman, to take my pleasure discreetly and with consideration for others, to run no unnecessary risks. He had learned by painful example just how badly wrong things could go for the likes of us, and he told me, one night as we lay naked together after he had fucked my face, of how he came about that deep scar on his torso. A young man in another town, a jealous wife, an angry father-in-law, an ugly brawl in a bar, a knife, a desperate flight on horseback, still bleeding, infection, a fever, near death… Mick had learned the hard way just how dangerous the love of men could be.
    It had not, however, put him off, and in the White Horse he’d found friends who would support and protect him. The barman shared his tastes, and on more than one occasion joined us for the night. I took them both, at both ends, alternately, together. One evening, when business in the White Horse was slow, the barman locked the doors with just himself, Mick, another rough laborer called Scott, and me inside. We fucked on the bar, on the tables, on the floor, upstairs and down. I took them all—and, that night for the first time, I learned what it was like to fuck another man, sticking my prick up the barman’s hairy ass as he leaned over a beer barrel sucking on the two hard cocks in front of him.
    And it wasn’t just in the White Horse that I took my pleasure. With the confidence of extreme youth, I had my own adventures. I assumed, like a fool, that any man who took my fancy would be happy to accommodate me. I lay, shamelessly naked and erect, on the sunny rocks at my favorite swimming pond, daring other bathers to come and join me. I worked my way through several of the cleaners, engineers, and clerks at the Hydropathic Establishment. Seldom was I turned down, and even if I was, nobody would have dared say a word against the boss’s son. I even seduced family friends who came to visit, “accidentally” stumbling into their rooms after everyone had retired for bed, ready with some foolish story about looking for a book, and often stayed till dawn, tasting forbidden fruit.
    But it was always to Mick that I returned, and I never tired of his loving. Our appetites matched perfectly. There was