Imagine the thick foliage of that garden in the English countryside,
attached to an ancient manor house owned by a historic, ennobled family:
their guests are two beautiful boys on summer break from school,
blossoming in their adolescence. They have been lovers for more than
two years (the term "boy friends" has not yet been invented).
Far from the prejudices and pruderies of London,
they have decided to take tea in the garden through which they have been
strolling. The sky is a little overcast today, but the air is pleasantly warm. The
boys' hairstyles are unfashionably long, well below the collars of
their frilly, button-down shirts with long, balloon sleeves; the shirts that
are no longer tucked into the waists of the gray trousers; with which
they have worn, after a brief consultation following the morning's love,
fawn-gray socks---semi-sheer, except for the soft opacity that ensheathes
their toes---and the soles are already heavily grass-stained. (Have I
mentioned they dislike the confinement of shoes?---tolerable only when
weather or surfaces afford no cooperation whatsoever.) The delicate
features of their faces---their winsom gazes and shy smiles---are
considered effeminate by the haters who judge and despise them; but
much appreciated among those who cherish such exquisite beauty, and the
exquisite delights of homoerotic romance. The law of the land forbids
them to be lovers and best friends with the most severe penalty. Poor
Oscar is, at this very time---this very day---incarcerated in Reading Gaol for
loving according to his nature (and not according to antiquated
statutes, parliamentary majorities, or ceremonial jurisprudence). As they
sip their tea, their feet---beneath the wrought-iron table---embrace each
other, a private gesture between them with which each assures the
other of love, and the comfort of acceptance. They talk of erotic poetry---of
Achilles and Patroclus, lovers, riding bareback on Chiron, himself
tumescent at the very thought of the beauty he was transporting; of
Orpheus and Kalain, for whom Orpheus composed his most seductive
songs; and Narcissus, not a self-lover entranced by his own reflection, but the
beloved of the very pool he will enter, also tumescent, to be caressed by the
eagerly lapping water, and therein to release his sweetness. They speak of the
joy of awakening, in each other's embrace, with the late morning light
streaming into the high window and on to their bodies, naked except for the
dark socks of last night's evening wear. And the nostrils of each are filled with the
fragrance of his lover; the mouth of each is filled with the
flavor of his lover; and the day begins as it will conclude . . . with love.
Thus aroused, each unbuttons the shirt of his lover, and passes his
hand beneath the fabric, on to the warm torso flesh, especially those
sensual circlets, the nubbins of which are now erect and ready for the
offered caresses of pleasure . . . .
Starward
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