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"Nunc scio quid sit Amor . . ."

---Vergil, Eclogues, VIII

". . . to rest now in this poetry."

---Constantine Cavafy, "Comes To Rest"

(trans. Keeley and Sherrard)

1

He took his shoes off before entering the apartment, and, as

he crosses the floor you note the oversized white shirt

(provocatively unbuttoned, even at the long-sleeves' cuffs), the

baggy dark trousers, and, beneath the tattered cuffs that

pool around his feet, the semi-sheer gray socks you gave him

(despite others' prejudiced and outraged remarks that

he is a street urchin, maybe even a whore, and unworthy of you).

Not against his biracial heritage (his mother, Nubian; and

his father, a Swede, employed at the Consulate---third or fourth

secretary, and neither present any more), or the long braids

(even in your time, some called them dreadlocks); no, here in

Alexandria, those details---if even known---do not matter at

all.  Those who criticize are compelled by jealousy---either

they desire his companionship for themselves, or they simply do

not want you to be a comfortable as you are with him:  some

bastard always wants to cast ruin upon even the most elegant

arrangements. The little foxes always declare unreachable grapes

sour, spoiled, corrupt, unworthy of attention, and then

viciously and vociferously crush them lest their falsehoods be

disproven.  You are a civil servant; you understand this

ruse, and other denials like it, very well indeed. 

2

He has taken his shirt off.  Now he sits reading the pages of

verse you have left for him to examine.  His knowledge of

Poetry, especially the Ancients', is too extensive to be

merely prostituted, posturing.  His body is sleek, slender, and

wiry---muscular without the distortion that body-builders in the

public attention not only display but attempt to extend and

expand, in order to increase the sale of tickets and their

shares of the earnings.  You can think of several words to

describe his complexion---but Cinnamon speaks not only to

color, but fragrance and flavor as well; and you have enjoyed

all three aspects, intimately and repeatedly. 

3

Tonight, you tell him, will follow a slightly different

theme:  tonight is about him, not you; for, despite

all other exterior considerations and assumptions, you

consider him your lover, not your catamite.  You bring

him to the bed, you remove his trousers and underwear:

both of you know his socks will continue to sheathe his

very shapely feet.  You have taken off your jacket and

necktie, nothing more.  His is the only nakedness

around which this room and, during this moment and in

your imagination, the Cosmos are centered.  Your very

thorough knowledge of his anatomy, and of the nuances of

its responses to your oral and manual ministrations, will

provide him exquisite satisfaction.  The three main

maximizers of sensation---two circlets of pleasure, and

one uncircumsised member (never particularly shy) are

ready and able to receive your efforts, abetted by their

other accomplices (those points on his neck and

shoulders, and under his pits; and---oh yes, the very

adolescent jewels, themselves, delicate in their pouch).

Your hand's rhythm is steady and insistent, and

your fingers' grip carefully gentle.  He begins to

squirm (a poet might even say---undulate) consistently,

his body following a choreography perhaps more ancient

than civilization itself.  You cannot hear his heartbeats,

but his accelerating respiration always becomes, by this

point, audible---punctuated by some very provocative

moans, as you bring him to the peak of arousal.  

Then, astute to the entire sequence, you detect

beneath your fingertips, the first of contractions,

those sevenfold surges that almost seem to slam through

his entire body, even to the visible flex his feet and

curl his toes within those silk sheaths that enclose 

them; and, more quickly than you can articulate a thought 

about it, his sweetness (all day confecting in his

core) releases its warm and glistening iridescence.

4

He will sleep here tonight; you are most insistent

about this, and he is more grateful for the shelter.

Such beauty should not be turned out to the darkening

streets, not in this kind of aftermath.  And so,

safe in your embrace and snuggled against your much

older, and much more gnarled body, he will rest

comfortably and without disturbance until morning.

You will go to the always demanding Office (Assistant

Supervisor now, some of the British bosses believe

you actually run the place), and he will wander

those places and havens that Alexandria has always

provided to beautiful young men since Ptolemy, son of

Lagus, began to expand it at the beginning of his

Pharaonic reign.  Tomorrow is about as much ahead as

you will habitually allow yourself to consider:

you and your young lover, despite his relatively

few years (nineteen, just last month, and both of

you celebrated jubilantly), have lost too much, and

too many intimate companions to expect broadly

permanent futures.  Once that is understood, the

erotic elegances given in the moment may be

shared and exchanged without consideration of

more than themselves.  You have preserved this

awareness in so many of your poems:  it is, 

perhaps, the very soul that vivifies them.

Starward

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