Leslie’s agreeing with you,” David said. “Most of them would give notice in a minute if they could live off the sale of their paintings.”
He fell to thinking of Zach’s words. He’d rarely made a conscious effort to influence others with his sketches; in fact, his own feelings toward a subject were often unclear till he’d captured it on paper. “I’m afraid I never gave thought to changing the Know-Nothings’ views,” he confessed, hoping he hadn’t lowered his friend’s opinion of him.
Zach smiled. “I daresay you give yourself too little credit,” he said, laying his hand warmly on David’s a moment.
The night air struck their faces in chill contrast to the crowded tavern as they climbed back to the street. Zach shoved his hands in his pockets. “We’re in for another cold snap. A fire in our stoves will feel good tonight.”
Elliot laughed. “I intend warming myself at a better fire than that. I won’t bother asking you to join me, Zach. David?”
David hesitated, feeling urgency stir within him. But he’d accompanied Elliot to one house or another some half dozen times, joining in hurried, joyless union with women whose faces and bodies he barely remembered by the morning after. Each time, the warnings voiced by his father sounded louder in his mind. This wasn’t some small town. Who knew who had lain with these women or what diseases they carried? He’d thought of asking Zach to recommend a clean place, but it didn’t seem a thing he could ask this friend.
He shook his head. The chance of infection wasn’t worth the brief respite from lust lying with whores afforded.
Elliot turned away with a nonchalant wave of his hand. David turned his collar up against the wind and fell into step with Zach as they headed back to Mrs. Chapman’s.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Sleep eluded him that night. He tossed restlessly, his efforts to summon drowsiness driving it further from him. He turned onto his back, trying to ignore the urgent throbbing in his member, regretful now that he hadn’t accompanied Elliot to the brothel despite his fears.
Yet he’d never found more than brief, unsatisfactory respite lying with women. He thought suddenly of that first time he’d gone to a bawdy house, in company with his college friend, John Eustis. He’d been far too embarrassed to admit his disappointment to John afterwards. He’d walked alongside him in silence as they returned to the dormitory, trying to emulate John’s cocky, carefree grin.
He’d never approached—then or afterwards—the ecstatic heights that John had boasted of as they ambled back together, John smelling pungently of rich, masculine sweat, his broad shoulders straining his carelessly fastened shirt, his arm circling David’s shoulders in brief, warm comradeship.
David’s hand crept down of its own accord. Moaning in reluctance, he gave in to his pulsating need, surrendering himself to the relief of the familiar, lonely massage.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“The Glory of Young Men is their Strength.” Elliot’s voice wavered midway between scorn and envy as he read the caption printed under David’s sketch of a massively bulging bicep. “I suppose it’s all right for those with nothing better to do than stand around posing like Greek statues.”
David laughed. “That is a statue, so to speak. I drew it from a plaster cast Ottignon keeps in the lobby of his gymnasium to demonstrate his results. But the exhibition was impressive. I’ve never seen feats like some of his athletes performed.”
Zachary turned over his copy of Leslie’s , studying David’s half-page sketch of the gymnasium, the spectators in the flag-bedecked hall gazing open-mouthed at the gymnast soaring effortlessly on the flying rings—the highlight of the establishment’s semi-annual public exhibition. “I’ve let a few years go by since I last set foot in a gymnasium. I wouldn’t mind using some of Ottignon’s apparatus myself,” he
He fell to thinking of Zach’s words. He’d rarely made a conscious effort to influence others with his sketches; in fact, his own feelings toward a subject were often unclear till he’d captured it on paper. “I’m afraid I never gave thought to changing the Know-Nothings’ views,” he confessed, hoping he hadn’t lowered his friend’s opinion of him.
Zach smiled. “I daresay you give yourself too little credit,” he said, laying his hand warmly on David’s a moment.
The night air struck their faces in chill contrast to the crowded tavern as they climbed back to the street. Zach shoved his hands in his pockets. “We’re in for another cold snap. A fire in our stoves will feel good tonight.”
Elliot laughed. “I intend warming myself at a better fire than that. I won’t bother asking you to join me, Zach. David?”
David hesitated, feeling urgency stir within him. But he’d accompanied Elliot to one house or another some half dozen times, joining in hurried, joyless union with women whose faces and bodies he barely remembered by the morning after. Each time, the warnings voiced by his father sounded louder in his mind. This wasn’t some small town. Who knew who had lain with these women or what diseases they carried? He’d thought of asking Zach to recommend a clean place, but it didn’t seem a thing he could ask this friend.
He shook his head. The chance of infection wasn’t worth the brief respite from lust lying with whores afforded.
Elliot turned away with a nonchalant wave of his hand. David turned his collar up against the wind and fell into step with Zach as they headed back to Mrs. Chapman’s.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Sleep eluded him that night. He tossed restlessly, his efforts to summon drowsiness driving it further from him. He turned onto his back, trying to ignore the urgent throbbing in his member, regretful now that he hadn’t accompanied Elliot to the brothel despite his fears.
Yet he’d never found more than brief, unsatisfactory respite lying with women. He thought suddenly of that first time he’d gone to a bawdy house, in company with his college friend, John Eustis. He’d been far too embarrassed to admit his disappointment to John afterwards. He’d walked alongside him in silence as they returned to the dormitory, trying to emulate John’s cocky, carefree grin.
He’d never approached—then or afterwards—the ecstatic heights that John had boasted of as they ambled back together, John smelling pungently of rich, masculine sweat, his broad shoulders straining his carelessly fastened shirt, his arm circling David’s shoulders in brief, warm comradeship.
David’s hand crept down of its own accord. Moaning in reluctance, he gave in to his pulsating need, surrendering himself to the relief of the familiar, lonely massage.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“The Glory of Young Men is their Strength.” Elliot’s voice wavered midway between scorn and envy as he read the caption printed under David’s sketch of a massively bulging bicep. “I suppose it’s all right for those with nothing better to do than stand around posing like Greek statues.”
David laughed. “That is a statue, so to speak. I drew it from a plaster cast Ottignon keeps in the lobby of his gymnasium to demonstrate his results. But the exhibition was impressive. I’ve never seen feats like some of his athletes performed.”
Zachary turned over his copy of Leslie’s , studying David’s half-page sketch of the gymnasium, the spectators in the flag-bedecked hall gazing open-mouthed at the gymnast soaring effortlessly on the flying rings—the highlight of the establishment’s semi-annual public exhibition. “I’ve let a few years go by since I last set foot in a gymnasium. I wouldn’t mind using some of Ottignon’s apparatus myself,” he
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