Between the Lines

February 11, 2010

From: Lawrence Ryan

To: Douglas Monroe

Subject: Re: Ronald Gordon's plays

Dear Mr. Monroe,

Thank you so much for sending the recording and your draft of the libretto. I must say, whoever you found to sing those selections has quite a beautiful voice. I have absolutely no complaints about your music, quite the opposite in fact, except that I did miss and very much look forward to hearing at least one or two of the duets that you have planned for the lovers.

With regard to the libretto, however, I am puzzled as to why you elected to edit the three plays down into two. Deleting incidental characters such as Henry's parents is a typical adaptational strategy, but why meddle with the overall dramatic structure so drastically?

It would be helpful, and indeed pleasant to meet face to face and work through the libretto together, but I'm afraid my schedule is rather full at present. In addition to preparing for the premiere of

Queen Mab

here in town shortly, I am scheduled to travel to Austin next month for the trilogy's Texas premiere there. Moreover, I have suddenly been tasked with an unexpected and somewhat delicate academic responsibility. But I suppose I needn't bore you with the details.

If you can find some time available later in the year, perhaps early this summer, please let me know so that we can plan for a proper collaborator's meeting.

Respectfully yours,

Larry Ryan

* * *

* Larry *

"Good morning, Larry. Terry's waiting for you," Sally greets me with her trademark practiced air of friendly efficiency from behind her well-ordered desk. The Theater department's administrative assistant for the past twenty-six years, Sally keeps us all in line with grace, humor, and infinite patience.

"Thanks, Sally." I throw her a fond smile before making my way past her desk to the office marked "Theresa Brooks, Department Chair."

I find Terry seated behind the wide desk in her crowded but immaculate office. As always, she is impeccably dressed in a sensible business suit, her iron gray hair perfectly coiffed. We've always gotten along well, but truth be told she frightens me just a little. I've seen her play Electra.

She looks up over her glasses and spots me standing in the door. "Larry! Thank you for coming by. Could you close the door, please?"

I blink and comply.

"Perfect. Thank you. Please, sit." She indicates the chair across the desk from her and, once I am safely ensconced there, folds her hands deliberately across the fat blue file folder placed squarely in front of her.

"I hear the Lexington premiere was an enormous success. I hope you're pleased."

"It was very gratifying, yes," I cautiously allow.

"Good, good. And two more productions coming this spring, I understand."

"That's right. The trilogy in Austin and

Queen Mab

here in town."

"Excellent. I'll be sure to put the local show on my calendar."

"I look forward to seeing you there."

Terry knows all this. Why are we going through this dance of courtesy?

We sit in awkward silence for a few seconds.

"Terry, what's this all about?" I finally venture.

She drums flawlessly manicured fingernails across the file once, twice, three times before answering. I can't help noticing the label on the file tab reads "L. Ryan / R. Gordon."

"Larry, I've been putting off bringing this up to you. I know you've had a great many things on your plate. But when I learned you'd be taking another trip this spring, to Austin this time, I knew I couldn't procrastinate any longer."

"Is there a problem with my going? Jim said he was happy to cover my classes for me that week I'll be out of town in March. Is there a conflict I'm not aware of?"

"Not... per se," Terry answers judiciously, "but there may be going forward."

I stare at her. "Enlighten me."

She opens the file and extracts a paper-clipped sheaf of documents. Before handing it across to me, though, she asks, "Have you received any sort of—push back—over the subject matter of Mr. Gordon's plays?"

"Push back?" I allow myself a small, scornful smile. "You mean hate mail? I'm destroying this country, corrupting our youth, peddling filth, flouting God's law... that kind of thing? A bit, yes," I concede. I have a designated "Bigots" folder in my e-mail containing fifty or so such charming missives. My first impulse had been simply to delete the vile things, but on second thought, I decided to save them as morbid historical curiosities—or as ammunition. A suspicion creeps into my mind. "Have you?"

Without answering, Terry hands me the stack of papers. I leaf through it, discovering a series of variations on the same familiar, single-minded (and simple-minded) theme: printed e-mails, typed and hand-written letters, telephone memoranda taken in Sally's careful, even handwriting. I notice with amusement that Sally has not been able to resist adding her own commentary in the margins of some of those: "Asshat!" underlined three times adorns one particularly vehement example. I had no idea Sally was even capable of swearing.

"That," Terry says tightly, "is a choice selection of the dozens of communications this department—and the office of the President, you should be aware—has received in the last two and a half months. Mostly from self-proclaimed 'concerned citizens'"—her lips curl derisively—"but a substantial number of them from parents incensed at the thought of their fragile, precious darlings being made to study under 'that sodomite professor,' as I believe one of them so charmingly dubbed you. Some of the other appellations were slightly more colorful, if you can imagine. We've also had three letters from various church coalitions around the state, and calls for a federal inquiry from one of our state congressmen—who clearly needs a refresher course on the First Amendment." She removes her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. "You've put us right in the crosshairs of the culture wars, Larry."

I sit speechless, appalled. Is the college really going to cave in to this reactionary temper tantrum? Is Terry? I never would have imagined this of her. She has a lesbian daughter, for Christ's sake!

Terry pauses to compose herself, her black eyes flashing, before replacing her glasses and lifting the next stack of papers, this one larger and held together with a binder clip. "And here," she continues, "is a selection from the

hundreds

of letters of congratulations and support I've received from members of the theatrical community, from gay and lesbian organizations, from some of our more open-minded religious congregations and clergy, and from alumni around the country—all thrilled that one of our own faculty has helped bring such an important issue to the forefront of our national conversation and, however belatedly, introduced the work of a major American talent to the public.

"I have also," she goes on, her eyes unexpectedly misting over, "been so proud to receive letter after letter from gay and lesbian young people—and their parents, what's more—begging for the chance to study at this institution, in a department that they now perceive to be a safe and accepting place to nurture their talent. And you bet your ass I've shared each and every one of these with the President. He was... impressed."

She drops the packet of correspondence in front of me with a soft thud. "Bravo, Larry," she says softly.

My own eyes well up. We sit staring at each other, a couple of sentimental old fools at a loss for words.

Terry eventually clears her throat. "Which brings me," she continues, "to my dilemma. You, no doubt, will have more productions of these plays coming up to steal you away from your teaching duties."

"Um, actually," I interject sheepishly, "I suppose now would be the appropriate time to talk to you about the requests for speaking engagements I've been receiving."

She closes her eyes. "I might have known. How many?"

"Half a dozen so far. Baltimore, San Diego, Portland, Salt Lake City..."

Terry exhales vehemently through her nose. "Larry, I'm thrilled for you. Truly. Not only is this a fantastic professional achievement for you, it's made us overnight into one of the hottest theater departments in the country. But what am I supposed to do when I have hundreds of talented young actors wanting to come here to study specifically with you, only to learn you're going to be spending half the year lecturing out of state? Jim's a fine actor and a good man, but he's not the one bringing in the applications, and he can't keep on indefinitely teaching your classes as well as his own in any case."

I lift my glasses and rub the bridge of my own nose in turn, thinking. "I know. I've been worried about that myself. I didn't know about the rise in student interest, though. Are there really that many kids out there wanting to come to us?"

"I expect enrollment to increase by as much as fifteen percent," she tells me bluntly. "And Larry, I've looked at every one of these kids carefully. Some of them are talents we simply can't afford to let slip through our fingers." She pauses, considering. "With those kind of numbers I

may

be able to convince the university to cough up enough money to add a lecturer position. That could help take some of the teaching load off you, so you could cut back to just teaching upper division courses. But it would have to be someone who's at least as big a draw as you are, and I can't imagine too many people out there like that who'd be willing to settle for a lecturer's salary."

I shake my head ruefully. "Nor can I."

"Well, give it some serious thought, will you? I'd prefer to have someone in my pocket before you disappear to Austin and we have to start issuing acceptance letters."

"That's not very much time, Theresa."

"Then think fast,

Lawrence

. You put us in this situation, the good as well as the bad; I expect your full participation in finding the solution."

"Yes, ma'am."

Terry snorts. "Don't you 'yes, ma'am' me, you old rogue. Go on, that's all I have for now. I'm glad we had this little chat." It is very clearly a dismissal. But as I have my hand on the doorknob, she says, "And Larry—congratulations again. Really. Go do us proud out there. And find me a lecturer!"

I leave her office feeling three inches taller. Sally throws me a knowing, confidential smile as I pass. Not much ever gets past Sally.

—————

February 14, 2010

From: Douglas Monroe

To: Lawrence Ryan

Subject: Re: Ronald Gordon's plays

Dear Dr. Ryan,

I'm so glad you enjoyed the recording. Aaron is a good friend and a fantastic singer. I had a most stimulating time making the recording with him. He'll be pleased to hear you approve of his performance.

By a very strange coincidence, or maybe not such a coincidence, if you happen to believe in such a thing as fate, I recently scheduled my own trip to Austin. Wouldn't it be a funny chance for us to wind up in the same city at the same time? My stay lasts from the 13th through the 19th of next month. Please let me know when you will be in town and whether it might be possible for us to make a connection then.

Best of luck—or should I say, break a leg—with

Queen Mab

! I shall make a point of listening to Berlioz on opening night in Her Majesty's honor.

Warm regards,

Doug Monroe

* * *

* Doug *

Alex is riding me in a lazy, sultry fashion while I run my fingers lightly over his nipples, his smooth chest, his hips, his perky erection, keeping his nerves deliciously fired up and on edge while he treats my dick and his ass to a leisurely, well-deserved reunion. Defying all my expectations, he appears to have actually taken seriously my encouragement to pursue a more active social life: We haven't seen one another in almost a month.

Fortunately, absence doesn't appear to have made the cock grow any softer. Alex is as enthusiastic and responsive a lover as ever. If anything, he's even more sensual and yielding tonight than in our past encounters. We've been keeping up this slow tease for nearly an hour, neither of us in any rush to bring it to a conclusion.

"So did you have fun with your friend while I was studying?" he asks breathily.

Yes, I told Alex about Aaron. There are no secrets between us. Details might only be provided upon request, but I never keep secrets where sex is involved. I learned that lesson the hard way years ago.

"We had a great time," I answer. "He said he'd been looking forward to meeting you a lot and was sorry he didn't get the chance."

Alex apparently likes hearing that I think highly enough of him to talk about him with another bedmate. I feel that oh-so-talented hole clench around my shaft, then release, causing my eyes to roll back in my head. It's his way of saying thank you. I place my hands more firmly on his hips to stop his grinding when I feel myself getting too close, pull his head down to mine for some deep and deliberate kissing.

"I was sorry, too," I tell him when we come up for air. "You'd have liked getting to know him." Another kiss. "But I'm not sorry I've got you to myself right now."

Not that that has stopped me from entertaining a good number of fantasies about having both men taking turns servicing me, picturing the vivid contrast of Alex's smooth brown skin next to Aaron's pale Irish complexion and abundant body hair.

That image pushes my libido into the next gear, ready to pick up the pace. I pull out, roll Alex over onto his back, and slide back into his welcoming depths in missionary position where I can long dick him. He coos his appreciation at the attention, stretching his legs high toward the ceiling to give me maximum access.

"Baby," I pant, between thrusts, "You feel amazing. I'm not gonna last too much longer like this."

He takes the hint and gets to work on his own neglected erection, coaxing himself toward his own climax in sync with mine. "Go for it, Doug," he encourages me through gritted teeth. "Pound my ass."

It isn't long before I'm right on the edge. I shift angles just a little, and Alex's cry of pleasure tells me I judged right: I've nailed his prostate. Jets of cum start spurting out of that cute little dick, spraying across his torso, adorning his nipples with ribbons of his sweet, milky seed. The sight and smell and sound of my man in full nut is all I need to set me off. I bury myself deep inside him and hold still, growling very softly in my throat while my cock twitches and kicks, filling the condom with my own seething man juice.

Alex smiles wickedly beneath me. "God, you're sexy when you cum." He stretches up to kiss my nose. Flatterer. When did he become such a charmer? I pull out and collapse on top of him, my head against his chest, inadvertently smearing my cheek with his puddled sperm. He idly runs his fingers through my hair.

After we've recovered and are cleaning up in the bathroom, I casually mention, "It might be a while before we have another chance to do this. I'm afraid I won't be around much next month. "

Alex's "I've just been well and thoroughly fucked" smile fades just a bit.

"I'm going out of town for a week in March," I explain. "I'm meeting a colleague in Austin. Aaron and Todd offered to put me up at their place."

He brightens up again at that. "Austin, huh? Cool!"

"You're not disappointed? I know we haven't seen much of each other lately."

He shrugs. "I'll live. I can hang with Kaleigh and Richard and Nick till you're back. They're cool." Interesting. I can't remember ever hearing him mention any of his friends by name before. "But how awesome is that?" he goes on. "You'll be there for South by Southwest!"

"What's that?"

He rolls his eyes.

"Kidding!"

I'm not. I have only the vaguest idea what South by Southwest is—some annual film and music festival, I gather. But I'm not about to admit my ignorance to a man almost twenty years my junior.

What? I only said I don't lie about sex.

—————

* Larry *

"Hey, Professor, c'mere a minute," a robe-clad Jeff beckons from a rehearsal room. He escorts me in, eyes dancing with mischievous excitement, and closes the door behind us.

"Whaddya think?" he asks, drops the robe, and turns slowly to reveal his costume for the big dream sequence in

Queen Mab

.

My eyes pop. Karine, our designer, has outdone herself. I don't know what kind of material she has found for the fringed trousers—it looks like rich brown leather, but clings to Jeff's legs and muscular buttocks like a second skin. The pants sit tantalizingly low on his hips, clearly revealing the athlete's girdle and blond treasure trail that direct one's eyes inexorably toward the bulge of his groin in front, and more than hinting at the cleft of his ass in the rear. A complicated asymmetrical harness made of artificial grape leaves and ivy wreathes around his otherwise bare torso, serving the function of suspenders and keeping everything—barely—decent. More ivy tendrils snake down his arms, held in place at the neck, biceps, and wrists by finely tooled leather bands dyed the same rich brown as his pants. The entire effect is a little bit Haight-Ashbury, a little bit haute couture, a little bit BDSM—and a whole lot of raw sexuality.

"They haven't done my hair and makeup yet, but I couldn't wait. I wanted you to take a picture to send to Daniel," Jeff explains. "He'll love this!"

"Who wouldn't?" I murmur, dutifully snapping a series of photos on Jeff's cell phone as he assumes various highly suggestive poses, and praying to all that is holy that my arousal is not too evident. I make it a point of pride to keep my relationships with all my students—past as well as present—platonic. Over the years I have even cultivated a slightly effete, asexual persona I think of as my "Dear Boy" character to help dissuade the hormone-addled young dears from seeing me as a possible sexual object, lest they prove too great a temptation. To find myself overwhelmed by lust like this is not only disconcerting, but highly unprofessional.

Perhaps it's simply hormonal overload. I haven't had another nocturnal visit from Ron's phantom for a couple months now. I'm not sure whether I should be distressed or relieved about this apparent return to sanity, though right at this moment a certain part of my anatomy is voting emphatically in favor of the former.

But God, is Jeff something! Daniel is a very lucky man indeed.

"I hope I'm not making you uncomfortable," Jeff tells me. A bit too late, but I'm not going to tell him that! "It's just that lately I've started to realize my time as a leading man is starting to wind down. I want to take advantage of this body while I still can."

I don't even attempt to refrain from rolling my eyes. "Jeffrey, for God's sake, you're thirty-eight! You know perfectly well there are men playing sex symbols well past your age. Just wait until you're

my

age and then talk to me about making the transition from leading man to character actor. When did you become so vain?"

He looks suitably sheepish, and mutters something I can't quite make out. When I ask him to repeat himself, he squares those broad shoulders and tells me, "Since I fell in love with a man eight years younger than me."

I can't help myself. I burst out laughing and, without thinking, pull him into my arms for a rough, affectionate hug. "Oh, my dear, foolish, smitten, insecure boy!" I say in his ear, "Eight years is such a very small difference when you get down to it. If you still aren't convinced that Daniel loves you for much more than your looks, then let me assure you, those stars in his eyes aren't about to dim over a few gray hairs and wrinkles."

He pulls back, still abashed. "I hope not," he says quietly, "because I can't imagine the rest of my life without him. Which reminds me..." he turns aside to rummage in a gym bag sitting on a chair nearby, "...I was hoping you could help me reserve some private time at the Madison Theater terrace on campus this spring so I can give him this." He turns and diffidently shows me a ring in a velvet box.