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  “Uh, Gabe…?”

  “Yes, professor?”

  He grinned. “First of all, I can’t go on calling you Gabe if you won’t call me Brent. Okay?”

  My turn to grin. “Okay, Brent. Now what’s your question?”

  “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way.”

  “Out with it!”

  “Well, I can’t think of any way to say it that doesn’t sound patronizing.”

  “Oh, then I know what you’re about to ask.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I get that question from time to time.”

  “Just to make sure we’re on the same page…”

  “You think I know a lot about music for a guy who works for B & G, right?”

  “Yeah, is that pretty offensive, or what?”

  “Well, it does mean that you’re guilty of stereotyping, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re right. It does.”

  “So, let’s just say that things aren’t always what they seem. You know HMS Pinafore?”

  He thought a minute. “Things are seldom what they seem, skim milk masquerades as cream”?

  I beamed at him. “Yup. You got it. Maybe there are electricians who don’t spend all their time in bars or at home watching TV and scratching their bellies.”

  He actually blushed. “Gabe, I’m sorry, man. I managed to give the wrong impression. I like you, and I respect your abilities. And I am happy that you like music and come to the concerts. Maybe someday you’ll tell me more about that interest.”

  I chuckled. “Maybe someday I will.”

  * * * *

  Rae

  I met Brent Collins at a reception for the new conservatory faculty. I hadn’t looked forward to going. The one the previous year, when I was new, seemed pretty stiff, as if all the people who’d been there for a while had turned out to look over and maybe look down upon the new meat. And we new ones were all pretty nervous, trying to make a good impression. So I thought I’d go and try to make this year’s newcomers feel a little more comfortable.

  Of the five new people, three women and two men, the only memorable one was the new guy in music history. Oh, I made a point of talking with them all, and they were nice and friendly enough. But they weren’t gorgeous. I mean drop dead gorgeous! This man had what Shakespeare described as a lean and hungry look. Shakespeare also said such men were dangerous. I wondered whether my new colleague was dangerous, and I decided to find out.

  I introduced myself and was favored with a smile that, frankly, made my panties moist. He offered me his hand and said his name was Brent Collins. Actually, I knew that, because we all were wearing those damned stick-on name tags that our dean likes so much. I think it’s because she can’t remember anyone’s name and doesn’t want to admit it. Anyway, Dr. Collins seemed very friendly. I’m used to being hit on, and he didn’t do that. But he did ask the usual questions about how long I’d been at the university and whom I had studied with. He wanted to know if I played in any of the con’s chamber groups, and I told him there was a faculty string quartet of which I was a member. He asked when our first recital would be, and I told him. He said he’d be sure to be there. Then he asked what I thought of my cello students. I said they weren’t Juilliard quality, but they were eager, and some of them had some real potential.

  About then, we were interrupted by someone else who wanted to greet the new guy. I gave him a wave and drifted away. He smiled over the shoulder of the person who was shaking his hand, and I looked forward to seeing more of Dr. Collins.

  * * * *

  Brent

  The fall term began with the usual flurry of getting class rosters, trying to match names with faces, dealing with those who registered late, and all that. I had a smallish section of music history and two larger sections of music appreciation for non-music majors, so I had just over a hundred students. There was lots of eye candy. It was still warm in late September, so there were cute guys in shorts and T-shirts everywhere I looked. I’d learned as a teaching fellow at Columbia to make eye contact with students as I talked with them, in class or out. That way I was less likely to get caught looking at the guys’ goods.

  About two weeks after the term began, Don Reedy, head of the music history department—there were only three of us—stuck his head in my office door one day. He asked me how I was getting along, and I told him everything was going just fine. Then he said Dr. Bledsoe, the Dean of the Conservatory, wanted to see me.

  “And I hope you’ll say yes to what she asks you to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, I think she should be the one to make the request. But it would certainly be better for your prospects here if you didn’t turn her down.”

  I told Reedy I’d make an appointment to see the dean. He said to let him know if I had any problems or needed anything, and left. The dean’s secretary told me when I called that the dean could see me at three that afternoon.

  “Will this take long? How much time should I set aside?” Time wasn’t really a problem for me. I just wanted to get some idea what was up.

  “She’s giving you fifteen minutes,” the secretary said.

  Of course in my classes I didn’t have time to worry about the upcoming meeting. But as I munched on a sandwich in my office at noon, I wondered what was in store for me. As it turned out, it was nothing ominous.

  The secretary, Lavonne, ushered me into the sanctum of the dean, who stood, came around the desk to shake hands, and gestured toward one of the chairs in front of the desk. Then she sat in the other. I’d heard Carol Bledsoe had been a fine pianist but had had to give up concretizing because of carpal tunnel syndrome or something like that. At any rate, she was a beautiful, elegant woman.

  She asked how things were going and whether I needed anything. Must be a standard administrator’s question.

  When I told her things were going okay and that I was enjoying my students, she leaned forward in her chair.

  “Brent—it is all right to call you Brent, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, dean, please do.”

  “Okay. I have a favor to ask of you.” I waited for her to go on. “Late in November will be the first concert of the year for the Conservatory Symphony Orchestra. They’re doing an all Schumann program.”

  “What a great idea! I don’t think I’ve ever heard an all Schumann concert before. What’s on the program?”

  “The main work will be the C major symphony.”

  “Lovely!”

  “And the Manfred Overture will be just before intermission. The first half of the program will be fairly short, actually.”

  “Surely there will be something before the Manfred.”

  “Yes, and that’s where you come in.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Colin Fiske, the conductor of the group, would like to do the Konzertstuck for Four Horns.”

  I smiled broadly. “Great piece! Very showy, very melodic, lots of bravura stuff for the horns.”

  It was the dean’s turn to smile. “I’m glad you agree. You see, we’d like you to be one of the quartet of horns.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Roger Burton, who is our professor of French horn, will be playing, along with his two best students. But Roger doesn’t have anyone else he thinks is really up to it. We’ve all heard about your playing, and we’d be pleased if you’d make the fourth member.”

  “I admit I’ve always wanted to play that piece. So, dean, I’m flattered. And honored.”

  She stood and gave me her hand. She had a lovely, almost motherly smile as she said, “That’s wonderful. It will be a nice way to introduce you as a performer and not just as a writer of elegant program notes. Lavonne will give you Colin’s office number. Why don’t you call him and tell him we’ve talked?”

  I said I’d do that. As I walked back to my office, I was amazed anyone here knew about my playing. I’d perhaps mentioned somewhere in my vita I played horn, but I was so focused on music history I certain
ly didn’t emphasize it. Yet the dean or someone must have been in touch with someone back in New York. Well, great! I was really looking forward to playing with three other hornists and the symphony.

  It was a hectic fall. I tried to get to all the individual student recitals and the recitals of the various ensembles. It took more time than I expected writing the notes for the programs of all the ensemble recitals. There were also my classes, of course, plus rehearsals in October and November for the orchestra concert at which I was to perform.

  Gabe, the hunky electrician whose ass I often fantasized about, was at many of the recitals. He cleaned up good, usually wearing a pair of dress slacks, a nice sport shirt or sweater, and well-polished loafers. Sometimes he’d wear a blazer or jacket with a shirt open at the collar. A couple of times he invited me to a local bar afterward.

  The first time that happened, he suggested a place some distance from campus. It was not too busy at ten o’clock on a weeknight, and we got a booth where we could talk without having to yell.

  “Brent, I don’t know whether you’re a wine drinker or not, but if you are, don’t order the house wines. They have some pretty decent wines, but you have to specify what you want.”

  “I would have had a beer with you, Gabe, if that’s what you had chosen, but I’d prefer a glass of wine. Why don’t you order for both of us?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Red or white?”

  “Surprise me.” I grinned at him. He surely did look good. His baby blue turtleneck complemented his intense blue eyes. My heart rate increased as I studied his handsome face, and my cock, semi-hard already, became totally rigid. I had to adjust myself under the table as he ordered the wine.

  He chose Columbia Crest Chardonnay. The first sip was fine, and I told him so. After that, I could have been drinking swill, for I was so engrossed in Gabe that I didn’t taste the wine. I drank it, and a second glass, I just wasn’t aware of what it tasted like, perhaps because I was fantasizing about other fluids.

  We talked about the music we’d just heard, about the Browns and the Bengals, about the upcoming elections. Not only was this guy great to look at, but he was also well read and very articulate. I felt completely comfortable with him—except for my constant hard-on. He was thoughtful sometimes, witty at others, just very good company.

  The second time we came to that place we had a nice Australian shiraz, but I can’t remember the name of it. That evening I was still fascinated by Gabe. I just couldn’t reconcile this intelligent, obviously cultured guy with the electrician who wore work boots and jeans and worked for B & G. But he’d told me that he’d explain that sometime, and I decided I should just be patient and let him tell me when he was ready. I didn’t want to botch the whole thing and come across looking like a patronizing ass. As we talked, I enjoyed his company greatly, but there was a lot more I wanted to discover about Gabe Sutton.

  That night in bed I fantasized, as I had so many nights, about Gabe. He was probably four or five years older than me, which would put him just under thirty. When I was with him, I felt awkward and immature. And I wasn’t used to feeling that way. I was used to being on stage as a soloist and in performing groups. I had taught as I worked on my doctorate. I usually managed to hold up my end of conversations at social gatherings. But my tongue, even my mind, had two left feet, so to speak, when I was around Gabe.

  I beat off imagining his naked body lying on mine as he deep kissed me and humped his hard cock against mine. Or, in another favorite fantasy, I first rimmed and then fucked that ample ass. I’d seen it so often on campus covered in khakis or in faded jeans. I threw wood every time I saw it, and I lusted after it. Oh, and there was also the fantasy of me lying on my back, feet locked around his waist, as he plowed me.

  But, of course, I had had no indication, no signal whatever from him that he was anything but straight. Except that he did stop by my office fairly often, usually just to say hello, and we had almost a standing date to go for a drink after recitals and concerts.

  It scared me that I was so attracted to this man. I’d never allowed myself to get close to anyone. I’d always told myself I’d be opening myself up for a world of hurt if I did. Not the physical kind of pain I had when I was beaten up in high school, but emotional pain, very likely. But the appeal of Gabe Sutton was so strong, I found myself willing to risk it.

  Chapter 2

  Sherry

  When I applied for a job with B & G two years earlier, I don’t think the director, Frank Hudak, wanted to hire me. I had two strikes against me. First, I’m quite short and also pretty thin, so he probably wondered whether I could do the work. Besides, who ever heard of a woman electrician anyway? I’m pretty sure it was Gabe Sutton who talked Hudak into giving me a chance. Well, I proved I could fish a wall and pull wire with the best of them. Now everybody treats me like one of the guys. At first sometimes one of them would swear in front of me and then apologize with a snarky grin. I’d just tell him to shut the fuck up and get back to work.

  You can imagine I was grateful to my new supervisor, Gabe. I also thought he was really hunky. I was always getting distracted looking at him. So after I’d been there about a month, I asked him after work if he’d like to go someplace for a beer. He surprised me when he grinned and said, “Why not?” A week or so later he was the one doing the asking. After that, we sort of got into the habit of socializing.

  We talked about work mostly, sometimes sports, “guy stuff.” He never made me feel uncomfortable, but I thought he knew about a lot of things he didn’t talk about. Somehow he was different from the others, though they all liked and respected him. For example, he was the only guy at B & G that went to the concerts and plays on campus, and I had the impression he read a lot.

  Gabe came across as a good guy, all man, but not like any of the others I worked with. Like I said, he was really nice, fun to be with, but holding something back.

  I suppose I should also admit he was about the sexiest stud I’d ever seen. I dreamed of him asking me on a real date, but who was I kidding? He could get any woman he wanted, except maybe for some of those my-shit-smells-good women professors. It seemed funny, though, that he didn’t seem to be dating anybody.

  * * * *

  Brent

  One morning about the middle of the fall semester I was sitting on the front edge of my desk, talking to my class about Brahms, I think it was, when a terrible racket commenced in the hallway outside the classroom. It was obviously some sort of electronic warning, a kind of klaxon. One of the guys grinned and said, “It’s the smoke alarms. That happens sometimes.”

  “So,” I asked, “what do we do?”

  “Well, it’s too noisy to take a nap,” he said, still grinning. “It’ll be about ten minutes before they can get ‘em turned off.”

  I certainly couldn’t go on with our discussion, so I just sat there, swinging my feet back and forth. Some of the students tried to chat with one another, but most just relaxed and waited. After a while I went over, opened the door of the classroom, and stepped into the hall. Coming toward me at a pretty good clip was Gabe Sutton, followed by a small woman dressed as he was in khaki work uniform and work boots. She was practically trotting in her effort to keep up with him. I hadn’t seen her before, but I read on her khaki shirt, “Sherry Narbone, Electrician.”

  Gabe grinned at me and said, without slowing down, “Sorry, professor. We’ll have this taken care of in a couple of minutes.” Sure enough, in a minute or two, there was silence. I looked at my watch. The period was almost over, so I let the class go, reminding them we’d have mid-term review the next time.

  Just as I had gathered up my notes, class roster, and textbook, Gabe and his diminutive assistant were coming back down the hall. He paused a moment by my door. “Whoever chose that brand of alarm made a big mistake. Those things are hard-wired, and when one goes off, they all do. They’re super-sensitive, so they go off over nothing sometimes.” He grinned. “Oh, Dr. Collins, this is Sherry Narbone, a
member of our staff.”

  She shook hands, and her grip was enough to make me wince. “Nice to meet you, professor.”

  “Same here, Ms. Narbone.”

  “Oh, by the way,” she said, grinning up at us, “I hear it was Gabe that picked out those smoke alarms.”

  He winked at me and then turned to her. “Narbone, your mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days.” With that, they were off. Even from that brief encounter I was pretty sure Ms. Narbone had a case for Gabe. I hoped desperately he didn’t have one for her.

  University professors, I discovered, had busy lives, but not as busy as those of teaching fellows. At Columbia I’d had to worry about the courses I was taking and the ones I was teaching. At least now that I was a full-time professor, I could relax a little. I had more time to practice my horn, for one thing. And more time to think about my monk-like existence.

  Almost without any volition of my own, I found myself spending a fair amount of time with Rae Menzies. She was always the one who suggested doing things, but I usually agreed. She was intelligent, talented, good company, and wonderful to look at. Even though I had no sexual interest in her, I did enjoy her beauty. We usually got together after concerts or recitals at the con. Occasionally on weekends we’d see a film. Sometimes we’d go to her place, sometimes to a bar, and occasionally, when the place was picked up, I’d ask her back to my apartment. Her quaff of choice was scotch, of course. Single malt. Of course. I’d begun to keep Laphroaig on hand.

  I began to worry about our relationship, if, indeed, that’s what it was. I wondered whether I was using her to hide my homosexuality and decided not, since I really did enjoy her company, as she seemed to enjoy mine.

  At night, in my bed, it was Gabe Sutton whose face and body were in my mind’s eye as I masturbated. My sex urges had come back from wherever I’d banished them, strong, hungry, demanding to be satisfied, always asking for more, more. I went online and ordered dildos in a variety of sizes.

  After never having had any kind of sex except with my hand, I became a hungry slut to my new toys. Several times a week I’d lube my dick, my ass, and an ersatz penis, get on the bed, and fuck myself while I pumped my swollen rod. This was better than anything I’d ever experienced before. I moved from the smallest through each one in turn to the largest dildo, as my anus stretched to accommodate the increasingly larger substitutes for the cock I wanted there, the cock of Gabe Sutton. Whenever I had these dildo sessions, I was thinking, always, about the beautiful, hot, sexy man I lusted after but couldn’t have.