The Choir II

I awoke Saturday, wondering if it had all been a vivid erotic dream, or whether I had really enjoyed the most exquisite sexual encounter of my life, far better than the guilty jack off sessions in my cousins barn, or my few feeble attempts at coitus with my various college girl friends. Rodrick Collier-Jones. Not just a world class boy soprano, but a world class love maker.

Still, I was from conservative and cautious enough a background to wonder what kind of trouble I was getting into. I had heard the English “public” school system had given rise to a very sexually active class of boys familiar with all sorts of practices. That evening, in the great hall at college, I though I would broach it with Symington, who was the product of Eton.

“Is it true, then, what they write about boys and sex at public schools? Older boys breaking in the younger boys?” I asked, as casually as I thought possible.

“Yes, perhaps not as pervasive as they would have you think, but it has always been there. I believe C.S. Lewis even wrote about it one his books, one I just read . . . Surprised by Joy, I believe. Luckily I wasn’t pretty enough to be chosen by one of the prefects or senior boys when I arrived at school, but my friend Fitzhugh was. Descendent of the secret wife of George the V, he was, and very pretty. I had the good fortune of benefiting from some of his tutelage, if you know what I mean. The dons are always claiming to be on to it, though we always suspected a few were just jealous, and at least one took up a relationship with a boy after he left the school. They would meet at a bed sit in Oxford, I believe. It’s comical, really, how Americans assume the term “bugger” is a term of endearment. It’s really just a good healthy butt fuck. I don’t suppose you had any of that in America?”

I let him know if there was, it was seldom talked about, and faggot was the most derisive term a young teen could us.

“How comical. Fag is what you do when you serve an older boy. So a faggot must be one who serves him sexually, as well.

I was comforted that the practice was not viewed as so terrifically abhorrent. Because the experience certainly was not. Still, I was leery about how Roddy would greet me the next day before eucharist.
I arrived at the robing room a bit early. I nodded to the tenors already there, Simmons and Mason. After I was robed, I sat for a bit in one of the school chairs tucked in the music room, reviewing the evenings music. I heard them arrive, a clattering and chattering of boys, shoving and laughing as they robed. I got up to see who was else was there, and I glimpsed him, already robed, every hair in place, talking to one of the other boys. He caught my eye and turned a radiant smile to me, made an excuse with his friend and made his way to me.

“Take you on again, sometime, on your Playstation. Oh, and a message—Nicky really would like a chance to meet Harry again.” with a wink Roddy was gone. Perfect timing. Just then the choirmaster clapped his hands, and we fell into line. Worship flew by, though there where times when the back of Roddy’s head reminded me of a different position, one in which I ran my fingers through his thick, straight hair just above my waist, and I could feel Harry stirring from his slumber. Roddy scattered with the other boys right after worship: they had lunch and a Sunday study hall.
Monday, before evensong, I made my way to the choir room in the undercroft early, as I had some editing to do for one of my professors. I was surprised to look up and see Roddy standing over me.
“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Some editing, is all. What’s up? How’d you get here so early?”
“I got a ride with Robertson, the organist. I wanted to see you. I was just wondering if you were any good at maths.”

“Too good for my pleasure. My Dad wanted me to follow him into the sciences, but I had my heart set on a career in the church.”

“If I come a little early to rehearsal tomorrow, could you give me some help? I’m a complete waste at Maths, and I’m afraid they might send me home if I don’t pass this semester. Mum would die if I had to go to the village school.”

We sat and talked a bit about his school work, especially about his math. He was getting some pre-algebra, and it was a complete cipher to him. He needed some help, it seems. I promised to meet him at 2:30 and we would take a shot at it before the 3:00 rehearsal.

We did meet, and we worked together the three lessons before the one he was currently preparing. Except for a playful squeeze of “old Harry” through my pants, Roddy was all business, and we really made some headway in the short half hour. He was able to follow my examples, and successfully completed a couple exemplars from the workbook. He was all sunshine as we went to rehearsal, and he beamed at me as he was assigned a solo for one of the selections for lessons and carols. After rehearsal he came up again, with Simon Wilcox in tow.

“Hey, Mickey,” he said, so familiarly. “Can you help me again Thursday, before rehearsal? That really helped.”

“Let me see,” I said, pulling my calendar out of my pocket. “It looks okay. Same time, or a little earlier?”
“Could you make it earlier—maybe a half hour?”

“Yes, I think I can.”

Roddy gave me another radiant smile, and ran off with Simon in tow, though Simon gave me a curious look, or was it a look of longing? As he went. I wondered what Roddy had told him. No knowing. Hopefully not that I was a great fuck.

Our next session was equally successful, though this time it was me who had the most difficulty focusing. I could smell the sweet boy smell, the smell of musk and sweat and innocence and perhaps eagerness. He sat, as seemed most natural to him, perched on knee leaning into me as we worked. Standing, he was a good 18 inches shorter than me, but on his knee, his head was near my chin. I could feel his breath on my cheek, and I felt the warmth of his body, rising from his lithe body, untidy in his blue wool blazer and wrinkled white shirt. A deep sense of longing seized me with a tightness in my stomach, a twinge in my rectum and a dull pang in Harry.

“So,” I said as casually as I could. “Do you think we might arrange a rematch?”

“Oh, I think so.” He said, with a wry smile. “Maybe sooner than you think. And I’ll have a surprise in my bag. Trust me.”

Our session went well, but soon it was time for rehearsal.