New Story

Every silver lining has a cloud.
David Friddle

I was ready when trouble came.
A.E. Housman

On the Horizon

“We are troubled,” Chicago heiress-patroness Thelma Altschuler said the moment she sat down. Her remark, directed to retired sociologist, Dr. Dalton Brawne, 81, was heard by all.

Gathered in the old-fashioned elegance of her family mansion’s living room, sat key persons representing the Art Institute of Chicago – director Helmut Schachter, his assistant William Atkinson, and Emily Bradshaw, wife of the chairman of its Board of Directors – Thelma’s friends of many years, Cincinnati’s Georgina Thomas and Joanne Springer of Indianapolis – both with strong connections to their local art museums – and a distinguished academic from the University of Chicago, Professor Sven Gustafson. Each one alert because of vested interests in the person of one Young Edwin Owen.

“I’m speaking for all of us and for some who aren’t with us, Dalton. Everyone’s met you by now. More tea’s over there,” she nodded in the direction of a large sterling urn nearby on an English lowboy of mahogany so polished it resembled a mirror. “Our concern is that Edwin, our brilliant star, is trying to accomplish too much and risks burning himself out.”

Dalton started, but was stopped by an upheld hand. With patience, he sipped from her antique Royal Crown Derby cup. A nice English Breakfast blend. Smells good, too.

“He’s only attending a few classes at the University. That’s not the academic load he needs t carry in order to maintain his fellowship. He’s involved in cleaning and restoring a landscape painting that doesn’t belong the Art Institute.He’s shirking his obligation to conduct tours for the public – yes, I know he draws a crowd every time he does – and there’s all the publicity he gets. Now, we understand that other museums want him to speak but he’s refusing to if the subject has to be Corot. Corot made Edwin’s name well-known all over the country. Then there’s the documentary that Georgina’s husband, Marlon, has commissioned for television and the pesky former sports writer from Indianapolis, Nick Charleston, who’s in charge of it. He’s bothering everybody.”

Her friends from out of town wanted to protest that they liked Nick Charleston just fine but they refrained, a hand on each other’s. Their curiosity was piqued for what the handsome, silver haired old gentleman would say.

Dalton wanted to reply. Up came Thelma’s hand again. “Of course, you know these generalities, but I suspect you know only what Edwin may have told you. He’s good at guile, I know. It’s a skill that’s growing – I should say, being cultivated by him – to manoeuver the gullible. I want you to hear from direct sources what’s going on that’s causing our worry. All right?”

She seemed to be thinking of whom to call upon first. Dalton decided to wait them out – the lot. He knew more than they thought he did, but clearly they needed to ventilate from the perspective of each. “Helmut, perhaps you?” she entreated and picked up her teacup.

A man of presence, Helmut Schachter was his museum’s ultimate spokesman. Slightly accented, otherwise perfect English, and a cultivated tone to his voice. People always listened.

“Thank you, Thelma, for bringing us together. I’ll address our current problems. Zvi Rosenberg and his staff in conservation are being drawn away from their objects needing extensive attention by watching Edwin’s work on Duane Wilderforce’s Friedrich landscape. Zvi has told me it’s hypnotic. The boy’s genius seizes everyone’s attention not that he’s completed cleaning the surface and has begun filling where paint is lost. His mixing of pigments and medium require nothing more than his eye. His movements with the brush are so minute that what he does cannot be casually observed. Seldom does he hesitate over a decision yet he never rushes, never has to remove the smallest stroke. Zvi’s personal assistant, Mabel, calls what’s going on ‘A miracle.’ Despite his location in the lab’s most remote spot – which I agreed to – people leave their work to view the progress.

“George Tanner, whom you know, Dr. Brawne, reports that the two most recent tours Edwin conducted, for MENSA members and for students and faculty from the Theological Institute, verged on – his word, mind you – transcendence. They weren’t merely filled with minute facts but with acumen of such depths as few experts have. Rebecca Rosenberg brought the Tribune’s writer, Joan Dearing, to witness one of his first, months ago. Joan’s article followed her viewing our accumulated video material of Edwin in other places. George says that her article has resulted in his docent program being virtually closed down. Requests for tours, except by walk ins, tourists and the like, are only for Edwin. Some of those ask for “that boy we heard about.”

Schachter, the only member of the group who knew that Dalton and Edwin were married, sat back. He stole a glance at Atkinson, who nodded approval. Together with everyone else, they waited.

Dalton chose for the moment to ignore what was gossip. He deposited his cup and saucer on the closest lamp table. He smiled slightly. “I’m aware of your problems, Mr. Schachter. And, I can propose one means of solving the painting situation. The entire attic of my home has been converted into a studio for Edwin. Conditions there are perfect. The painting quite simply can be moved over. Zvi, our neighbor, can check on it whenever he wishes. Meanwhile his lab will be free of Edwin and the distraction he’s unwittingly causing.”

Atkinson and Schachter murmured together. Schachter spoke. “The Caspar David Friedrich canvas is unbelievably rare and valuable. We are hoping to acquire it from Wilderforce when the work is done. He’s said he didn’t plan to take it back to Paris. You have no security.”

“Easy, there, Director. The picture was in the attic of Duane’s Paris house for probably a hundred years or more with no security except that no one knew about it. The French never knew it was in their country. And no one need know of its transfer to another attic in this country. Mine. Tell you what, I’ll call Duane, who’s an old and quite personal friend, and get his consent. After all, I’m the one who introduced George to Duane. Duane’s a businessman who knows how to take risks. He’ll weigh the odds of anything adverse taking place and listen to my advice – which just might include what I think he ought to do with the picture when Edwin’s finished with it. Besides, the only people who know of its existence are a few of your staff and the people in this room.”

“Trouble is,” Atkinson spoke in his slightly nasal voice, “all the world’s rarest pigments are in the lab.”

Dalton cut him off, “Let him take what he thinks he needs. He’ll return what he doesn’t use and come back for any he may need. In-and-out, simple. Zvi and Mabel’ll keep track. They’ve already made scientific records of the canvas and the work there to date. Let’s go on. Next.”

“Tours,” Schachter said.

“Spring break’s about to happen. Get a video team together and I’ll get Edwin to take a small group through, say, some tours. What about one on portraits of people and how they change with art styles, another about the same with landscapes, one on religious subjects, and one of whatever-else you want? These can be put on those headphones things or can be used to train George’s docents.”

“May I?” Mrs. Bradshaw spoke up. She represented her husband and his authority on the Board (as well as the family foundation). “You people have, I think, missed the chance to feature Edwin as a lecturer in Fullerton Hall. You’ll sell out, you know.”

Joanne Springer, no wall flower, characteristically thrust up her chin, “You know what happened with us at the IMA.”

“And with us in Cincy.” Georgina Thomas didn’t hesitate, “And god knows, you know about Boston and Cleveland. He wants to come back to us and to do something with our conservator, Jocasta Washington. They hit it off great. Edwin donated his honorarium to her department. We’ve listed him as a sponsor.”

“Friends, I’d like to call on Professor Gustafson. His patience during all this is matched by his charm. I’m glad that Dalton brought him to my attention not only for those reasons,” Thelma smiled after offering more tea to all, “but because he has interesting light to shed on Edwin’s work at the University. Professor,” she gestured for him to speak.

Tall, bald, grey-haired, somewhat wizened, Gustafson had elder’s eyes that glistened the way Dalton’s sometimes did. He looked at his former colleague indulgently.

“I instigated Edwin’s unusual entry into UC and had a hand in his being awarded an undergraduate fellowship, although I knew full well that people in this group were willing to underwrite his tuition. The now-famous interview he caromed through for six or seven hours with our art experts eased my way.”

“Caromed?” Emily was curious.

“A term from billiards. A brilliant move of the cue in which a player strikes two balls with intent. In other words, hits every target. I’m using it loosely. Maybe golf’s hole-in-one would be a better analogy for now.”

“I see.”

“Edwin is only enrolled at present in three courses, in two of which he is more absorbent than,any sponge. He’s taking an advanced seminar on the Middle Ages and a survey called European Literature in Translation. His professors, Drs. Hananian and Knoblock, attest to his grasp ofeverything. He dropped English after being insulted by the instructor’s ignorance and,gobbledegook explanation of some non-poem. I heard that his Applied Art class is going,swimmingly – a lark for him.”

Dalton chuckled, “I can speak to that.”

Heads turned his way. He sat up.

“Our boy – our young man, I ought to say – says there’s…there’s no real teaching going on, just encouragement to splurge student’s imaginations on using uncommon materials. Mixed media, you see. He did a ‘thing,’ he called it, with wire coat hangers and twigs twisted together with colored yarns his aunt had left at our place and two mismatched marbles and some glue. It vaguely resembled a torso with eyes but no sockets. He called it ‘Lost Soul.’ Told the instructor, ‘It just happened. It explains itself.’ The kids accepted it with ‘Yeah, man’ and ‘I get it, dude.’

He mixed a can of half-dried household white enamel from someone’s garbage on the street with knotted pieces from a roll of old Ace bandages he found in my medicine cabinet. Gunked them together on a few pieces of rotted wood from my back fence, pushed into the tacky surface several wrinkled condoms (I’ve no idea where they came from), and topped off the result with some blood-spattered Band-Aids here and there. Titled it, ‘Untitled 2,’ and presented it in the studio with, ‘My first one didn’t come together. This one did. It speaks for itself, means whatever it means to you – or nothing at all if you can’t see it.’ Both, he tells me, were voted into the semester-end’s class show.”

With a smug fold of his arms, Dalton sank back into the arm chair. He and Sven exchanged glances.

“Then he’s doing well in all three,” one of the women said. It was Thelma. “What did you mean by ‘only’?”

Prof. Gustafson answered, “Scholarship recipients, to maintain their subvention, must take five courses each term. It’s standard.”

“Wait, Sven,” Dalton spoke. “Edwin’s is an undergraduate fellowship. Isn’t that different?”

“Fellowships, while based on merit, require a full-time load.”

“Ah, that is a stumbling block.”

Heads shifted Dalton’s way – again.

“Edwin’s becoming his own man. Making his own decisions more and more. Headstrong. So many people have controlled him – from his aunt and George Tanner to interested parties such as ourselves that, I believe, he’s chafing. It’s natural. Especially for someone with his array of gifts. It may disappoint you to know that he doubts he needs a college degree.”

“What?” several chorused.

The room fell awkwardly silent.

Dalton offered a hand for Sven’s cup and stepped to fetch more tea for them both. “Just now,” he fiddled with the urn’s tap, “the documentary may be a bother but not a serious one. Nick Charleston’s a nice guy finding his way with the challenge your husband, Mrs. Thomas, offered him. The TV piece’s an important stepping stone in his career. I say we encourage it and let it include the work on the Friedrich canvas – if Duane agrees. It needn’t be aired until the restoration’s complete and the museum gives it its first display. All the bigger the story.”

Director Schachter seemed querulous, “That’s quite a speculation.”

“You want the painting or not?” Dalton stood his ground. “Rosey told me that you don’t have a Friedrich oil while the National Gallery does and the Kimbell but not the Met, nor the Getty. This documentary could help you get it one way or another.”

“Dr. Brawne, what do you mean?” It was Emily Bradshaw, in her quiet way, who wanted to know.

“As Rosey – that’s Mr. Rosenberg, if I didn’t make it clear before – as Rosey says, the museum might be given it or acquire it through a private sale if Duane wants or needs the money, which I doubt. He likes it enough to have commissioned Edwin to make a copy of it, I think for his penthouse here.”

The room buzzed.

Zven rose to join Dalton at the urn, accepting his freshened cup and drinking it straight down. He turned on his best face. “If I may, I think all our concerns have been aired. I’ll bow out with thanks to our gracious hostess. So pleased to have met you all. Academe calls.”

With an arm around his friend, Dalton brought the session to its end. “Sven’s right. I’ll speak of these issues with Edwin, subtly of course, and to Duane. I’ll also call Edwin’s aunt, Agatha Cobb, in Treydon, Indiana. Thelma, you’ve met her. She has a special place in Edwin’s heart and knows him better than anyone. Her interest will help immeasurably. Thank you all for your company and – what’s that awful word? – input. I’ll convey your greetings and best wishes to our young man. I’m sure we all agree that duress is never positive. I’ll do everything in my power to remain watchful over the choices he makes, the choices he must make for himself. So far, there’s no sign of a burn-out. He’s actually doing way more than any of us could, but then we aren’t his age.”

Cheeks were kissed, hands shaken, farewells said. The two friends bolted for the door.

Once outside, Dalton grabbed Sven’s coat sleeve. “Get me out of here as fast as you can. Busy body women drive me up the wall faster than any ivy grows.”

Sven laughed heartily. “My car’s just around the corner. Let’s dash.”

* * *

Residents of France & Malaysia Arrive

Perigrination charms our senses with
unspeakable and sweet varieties.
RICHARD BURTON

The traveled mind is the catholic mind
educated from exclusiveness.
BRONSON ALCOTT

Men of great parts are apt to go off the common
road by the quickness of their imagination.
JONATHAN SWIFT

Travel for Business

“We have catching up to do.”

“Indeed. When will you arrive?”

“Three-thirty or thereabouts. I’ll take cab.”

“Terry’s not with you?”

“He’s not, but sends greetings. Friends in San Francisco prevailed.”

“Is Hassan with you?”

“Yes, and keen to spend time with you to hear all the latest.”

“There’s plenty for his eager ears.”

Duane Wilderforce chuckled and rang off.

Stephen Corbett, exporter-importer, enjoyed the prospect of visiting his friend Duane. That the investor’s now-partner (former slave) Hassan Yasamin, was at hand brightened further the prospect. Memories of their lusty New Year’s stay with him remained vivid. The compound which he and his partner, Terry Lee, shared in George Town, Penang Island, West Malaysia, had seldom been so sexually festive.

As his flight took off from San Francisco International, Stephen settled into comfortable thoughts about the coincidences of friends and circumstances which had made the year-end holidays spectacular. Dalton Brawne and Young Edwin Owen – there was a pair still talked about, Edwin particularly in art circles for his bonding with national treasure, watercolorist Dato’ Tay Mo-Leung. Indelible was Stephen’s memory of his cock nearly being ripped off by Edwin’s rectal power. The local Chaudary family, especially the males – father Salil and sons Afzal and Shantanu – had defied and broken taboos without the community’s notice. Shan had triumphed in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.Tokyo-based custom tailor Noriuki Sato had overwhelmed Shantanu with a specially-designed training halter and a breathtaking costume for his role as Puck. The garment, of ingenious construction, managed to secure and disguise the teen’s massive genitals while displaying his glamorous body. It would be used again in the coming Spring and Summer for other productions and performances. Master Sato’s new piece of equipment, a motorized, suspended body-pod, for the Corbett-Lee compound’s gymnasium – christened STEPHEN’S FORNICATERY by prankish Edwin – had been demonstrated to maximum effect by willing passives Ben Ong and Henry Hooi to their, and their witnesses’ satisfaction.

Those and other subjects flickered and dimmed to the drone of jet travel. Stephen dozed, then slept soundly in business class as weather patterns changed below thirty-six-thousand feet. Late Winter Chicago awaited, unpleasant for a man used to Malaysia’s heat. Duane’s penthouse would compensate. Any business opportunity via Duane promised much.

* * *

The Lockwood Restaurant downstairs in the Palmer House sent up rainbow trout with creamed spinach and gruyere, dilled asparagus salad, and carrot cake. Duane’s Chilean sauvignon blanc more than pleased. It mellowed Stephen’s wild excitement over the late afternoon’s revelations.

Hassan’s comments during the succession of videos distracted as much as they informed the middle-aged businessman. His brow wiped of its porn-inspired sweat, comfortably ensconced on Duane’s plush sofa, Stephen made no remark about those. He did run through some observations.

Cinematography, editing, audio quality – consistent with technical standards set by major networks and Hollywood studios. Subject matter: gloriously, imaginatively sexual. Totally homosexual. Males in lubricious action. Specific types with skill-sets that included acting. Acting! Actual scripts with meaningful plot lines and dialogue.

“And to think, they’re productions of a small team from a farm! It’s unbelievable.”

“The talent pool’s beyond remarkable.” Duane winked at Hassan, who made a vociferous show of nodding yes, then looked back at Duane.

“We went to see what they called a Film Festival, short films made by the Farm boys. We took one to our room for the night, a Russian named Konstantin.”

“And?”

“And we had a time like no other.”

“Duane, you are playing with me. What is this all about? Time to spill the beans. I don’t even know why I’m here – yet. Only some vague notion of a business opportunity – one I take with no connection to my import-export operations.”

Hassan clapped his hands.

Duane leaned to explain The Birchfield Farm. As the lay of the land, so to speak, was mapped for Stephen, Duane said, “Because of recent developments, we intend to establish ourselves in the porn scene with for-pay downloadable scenes that will rock boats, topple other studios, and give rise to more sperm-flows than Pompeii spouted lava.”

“Oh?” a dubious eyebrow raised. “How do you see me fitting in?”

“We want to do certain things at your compound’s tropical setting – and can pay you handsomely.” Duane hastened to add, “And any suitable locals who might qualify, we’ll reward them, believe me.”

“Anything else in this mad idea? Anyone else?”

“As a matter of fact…Hassan, your turn, since it was your idea.”

Not one to underplay a good moment, Hassan ran a hand through raven-black curls and flopped his head into Stephen’s lap, looking up. “Dalton as agreed to star in some of the videos.”

“What?”

Amused as much by his friend’s incredulous question as by Hassan’s flipping over and making a show of mock-gnawing Stephen’s crotch, Duane let out one of his best, deep chuckles. “There’s a market for older daddy-types with younger men, but an even greater one for granddaddies in as good a shape and with full performance abilities.”

“Plus a dick maybe bigger than yours,” Hassan mumbled, mouth full of trouser material.

Recovering from his shock, Stephen blinked. “What does a certain Edwin have to say about that?”

“Ha, good joke! – I quote Terry,” Hassan flipped over. “You can ask him.”

“He’s right. We’re lucky,” Duane explained. “Edwin and Dalton are free for supper here tomorrow. Edwin, as you know, divides his time between studies at the University and work on a painting for me at the Art Institute and his tours of the art exhibits for groups there.”

“Until then, what? More details about my compound?

“The morning’s ours and lunch as well. We’ll go over to the Malaysian Consulate on North Michigan Avenue at two-o’clock, then walk the few blocks South to join one of Edwin’s tours at the museum. It starts at four and lasts an hour. Does that sound like a plan?”

“The Malaysian Consulate?”

“Why yes, to start the wheels turning on Edwin’s determination to have Tay Mo-Leung’s paintings shown here.”

* * *

A gaggle of people stood rapt before a voluble teen in front of Jackson Pollock’s Greyed Rainbow. Three men stood offside watching. Three more approached. The tour Edwin was conducting was his second for the local Mensa chapter. It was what museum crew worker Tom Loft called “a doozie” when introduced to Stephen. Duane and curator George Tanner shook hands. Roger Dawson, technically Tom’s boss, wrapped his muscular arms around Hassan. A flick of Edwin’s eyes was sufficient to quell their disturbance.

Then Dalton Brawne showed up.

Effulgent as ever, he would have burst out with a hearty greeting but for a jump onto him by Hassan, who kissed the stately old man so solidly that not a sound emerged. Shhh…he pursed his lips silently and canted his head toward Edwin’s tour. Shhh….

Stilled, they listened as Edwin fielded questions not by ideas or opinions of his own but by quoting the painter’s own words. Those he spoke in tones rather grave for an eighteen-year-old.

“Why’s it the same all over?”

“My paintings do not have a center, but depend upon the same amount of interest throughout.”

“Was Pollock trying to be offensive?”

“Abstract painting is abstract. It confronts you. There was a reviewer who wrote that my pictures have no beginning or any end. He didn’t mean it as a compliment, but it was.”

“Did he plan canvases such as this or that big one at MoMA?

“I don’t work from drawings. I don’t make sketches and drawings and color sketches into a final painting.” Also, “When I’m in my painting, I’m not aware of what I’m doing.”

“Then what did he think he was doing?”

“Painting is self-discovery. A personal ‘event.’ Every good artist paints what he is.”

“Did he say what he thought an artist was?”

“Indirectly, ‘When I say artist I mean the man who is building things – creating, molding the earth – whether it be the plains of the west or the iron ore of Penn. It’s all a big game of construction – some with a brush, some with a shovel, some chose a pen.”

“Is that an example of straight thinking?”

Edwin’s trademark Leonardo smile preceded, “Could it be, if we take into account his alcoholism and closeted homosexuality. The combination took him into a miserable marriage with Lee Krasner. Say, the Art Institute has one of her lithographs which looks remarkably influenced by Greyed Rainbow. Sorry, it’s not on view.”

As heads turned variously and a different hand shot up for another question, Dalton signaled his friends to follow him. Safely distanced, he confided, “Let’s adjourn to the coffee shop. He can go on like this – and will – until the cows go home. Right, George?”

George snickered, “Gents, at least two of you need to get back to work. Let’s the rest of us follow the bull who’s so full of it.” Playfully, he jabbed his old friend Dalton to lead the way.

By the time Edwin dropped in, the lot was on its second cup of coffee.

“Were the Mensa people any sharper this time around?” Dalton didn’t wait for Edwin to pull up a chair or to answer. He said to the others, “Last Autumn, their reputed high intelligence didn’t impress you-know-who.”

“The things they were seeing then differed considerably from today’s Twentieth Century canvases, Dalton. They were looking for understanding that was not to be had the same way.”

“Hello, Edwin.”

“Oh, Stephen, sorry! This insensitive lout waylaid me,” he tousled his husband’s head of silver hair. “I’m genuinely glad to see you again.”

Rather than to bring up what was on his mind (Edwin’s astounding ass), Stephen delivered individualized messages from their artist friend – “not in good health” – from Salil and Nirupa Chaudary – “in very good health” – and from Terry – “who’s probably fucking somebody’s brains out in San Francisco.”

George Tanner imbibed more coffee, wishing for a chance to tackle the challenges of Hassan’s compact body. His thoughts were no secret to Duane or Stephen.

“Edwin?”

“Yes, Stephen?”

“Anyone interesting been in your ass lately?”

The question caught Dalton’s attention. Edwin’s answer tickled his fancy: “My husband is never uninteresting.”

George cocked his head at Duane. Hassan eyed Stephen.

“You see,” Edwin blithely continued, “when I engirth him, he shafts me in so many different ways, so unpredictably, that ‘I sing the body electric.’”

Laughter came from George and Duane who, at Stephen’s expense, knew Walt Whitman’s startling line and enjoyed their friend’s discomfiture.

“You’re showing off,” Stephen mumbled.

“I always do, don’t I, Dalton?”

“Especially when I’m fucking you into discharge of that electricity so we can get some sleep.”

Edwin clapped his hands, “And we both discharge!”

Grinning, Hassan joined the applause.

Stephen surrendered.

* * *

When opportunities don’t happen, create them.
M.L. GROSSER

If you can dream it, you can do it.
WALT DISNEY

In business, chase the passion.
ALPHONSE HSIEH

Business in The Making

Edwin’s Winter Term at the University, for the most part, was as much a torment as Chicago’s weather. He was blown this way by tasks and assailed that way by duties, pummeled from above by snow and sleet, and bolstered by Dalton’s warmth and encouragement. The approach of Spring Break’s week of freedom hiked pleasure at the chance to complete his wonderfully absorbing double-project: cleaning Duane Wilderforce’s Friedrich mountainscape and completing his copy of it.

“Aggie!” Dalton was excited to answer the telephone, “I see it’s you on the caller ID. Hope your extremities are warm down there in Treydon.”

“They are, and my enmities are on the rise.”

“Tell – what’s that mean?”

“Sally, Jesse’s mom is ‘being courted’ by a man she met on a trip. No one’s paid her attention like this guy, so she’s flattered I mean, flattered.”

“There’s a problem?”

“You can bet your nuts on it. Rocco Fox – believe that name? – is superhetero, a stud, he considers himself. I think he’s a thug. Probably has a small cock. That sort usually do, I hear.

Don’t you snicker at me, Dalton! He’s already called Jesse ‘a fag’ and sniffed out the relationship between Jesse and Shan, thinks it appalling, wants Sally to ‘get him help,’ has threatened to confront Shan…”

Dalton interrupted, “Wait a second, Aggie. Slow down. He has no authority…”

“You wait. If he marries Sally – she’s thinking about it – then…”

“Then Sally’d better have a pre-nup. Simple as that. What’s hers – her house, etcetera – is hers, what’s this Rocco’s is his and, after they marry, what they generate together is common property.”

“Got it. And I’ll get on it. Poor Jesse’s scared. He and Shan are deeply involved at school, both doing great. This situation’s distracting to say the least. And there’s Shan’s swimming. He’s down because the trips to Hoosier State to use the pool there are off – weather’s been so bad. Oh, listen to me rattling on.”

“Rattle all you like.”

“Okay, here’s what really on my mind. Spring break’s just ahead. As concerned friends, my next-door neighbors, Anne and Erich, and I need to confront dear Sally. We’re scared the shit’s going to hit the fan when we do. I want the boys out of here. They need a chance to clear their heads. Can I send them to you and Young Edwin for that week?”

The request stymied Dalton for an instant. Gears shifted, cogs engaged. “Actually,” he responded slowly, “you can…because I think Afzal’s on the verge of moving in with his girlfriend, Amy. It wouldn’t take much prodding to precipitate his relocation, at least temporarily. What are the dates?”

She told him.

He checked the calendar. “It’s a done deal.”

“I like doing business with you.”

* * *

Stephen Corbett’s flight back to West Malaysia on an Etihad Airways Dreamliner exhausted him bodily and mentally. Practical thoughts about the project forthcoming to stage there for professional videographers “the world’s finest gay porn” consumed him with more relish than he did his meals in business class or the amenity of inflight entertainment, the movie True Heart of the Kelly Gang and installments of NCIS.

Sorted in his mind were a myriad of details to assure total privacy. Shortlisted were names of likely candidates for participation – goodlookers who loved sex and would welcome Duane’s money, involvement of Master Sato from Japan and his custom-tailored leather products, the Battacharya twins and their tantalizing ‘dermalism’ techniques and uniquely sensitizing oils, as well as his own submissive Terry Lee, who was game for anything erotic, especially to be in a porn film.

While this grand scheme might generate large sums, all signs that his compound was the location must be suppressed or disguised. Any sign my place is involved might prove fatal, local laws being what they are. Definitely wouldn’t want to be caned.

This pregnant moment in NEW STORY allows for your consideration of the events to date, and for your (hoped for) anticipation of developments ahead. Teen-ager couplings and others will take us toward some exhilarating moments in the lives of all. Your rating and comment about what you have just read will be appreciated.