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Sexuality in 1890s England” for European History. Also, the day before I’d come home from the library only to get a message that someone named Hunter had called. Needless to say, I’m not of the generation that knows many people named Hunter. Still, I called back. Hunter told me he was a sophomore, a buddy of one of Eric’s roommates. Could I meet him for lunch at the Fatburger on Santa Monica? he wanted to know. He had a business proposition to discuss.
    Of course I went. Hunter turned out to be one of those muscular blond California boys who drive Jeeps and really do call every male person they know except maybe their fathers “dude.”
    â€œI’m a friend of Eric’s,” he began.
    â€œOh?”
    He nodded. “And we were partying the other night, and I was telling him I was up shit creek with my World War II history paper, so he goes, “Why don’t you call up this dude I know, Dave Leavitt?’”
    â€œHe did.”
    â€œThat’s right. He said, well, that you could help me out. I mean, how am I supposed to finish this history paper,
and
my comp sci project,
and
my poli sci project, in addition to which I’ve got this huge econ final? Huge.” Hunter took an enormous bite out of his Fatburger. “You understand my problem, dude?”
    â€œSure,” I said. “As long as you understand my arrangement with Eric.”
    â€œI’m listening.”
    â€œI mean, did he explain to you how he, well, pays me?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAnd are you willing to pay the same way?”
    He crossed his arms. “Why not? I’m open-minded.”
    Mimicking his gesture, I sat back and looked him over. He didn’t seem to mind. He had dark skin, longish blond hair brushed back over his ears, abundant blond chest hair, tufts of which poked upward from the collar of his shirt. An unintelligent handsomeness, unlike Eric’s. Nor did he provoke in me anything like the ample sense of affection Eric had sparked from the first moment we’d met. Still, there is something to be said for the gutter lusts, and so far as these were concerned, Hunter possessed the necessary attributes—muscles, vulgarity, big hands—in abundance.
    â€œSo what’s the assignment?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s the trouble. I’ve got to find my own topic.”
    â€œHistory of the Second World War, right?” I thought. “Well, something that’s always interested me is the story of the troops of black American soldiers who built Bailey bridges in Florence after the armistice.”
    â€œBailey what?”
    â€œTemporary bridges to replace the ones that were bombed.”
    â€œCool. Professor Graham’s black. He’ll like that.”
    â€œAlmost nothing’s been written about those soldiers. Still, I could do some research—”
    â€œIt’s supposed to be a research paper,” Hunter added helpfully.
    â€œWhen’s it due?”
    â€œThat’s the bitch. The twenty-first.”
    â€œThe twenty-first!”
    â€œI know, but what can I do? I only found out about you yesterday.”
    â€œI’m not sure I can manage a research paper by the twenty-first.”
    â€œDude, please!”
    He smiled, his mouth some orthodontist’s pride.
    I don’t know what came over me, then: a lustful malevolence, you might call it, that made me want to see just how far I could go with this stupid, sexy, immoral boy.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “There’s just one condition. With this time constraint, the terms are going to have to be—how shall I put it?—more exacting than usual.”
    Hunter put his elbows on the table. “What did you have in mind?” he asked.
    â€œOkay, how does this sound? Just to be fair, if you get a C or lower on the paper, you don’t have to do anything. If you get a B, it’s the same as with Eric: I give you a blow job. But if you get