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sometimes.”
    “How can you tell?” I asked.
    “Ah! That’s it! That’s the trick. That’s what makes some of us go this way—” He pointed up. “And some go that way—” He pointed down.
    “And which way do you think you’re going?”
    He went pale, clenched his jaws so hard that they made a sound. He looked at me, his eyes blazing.
    “I don’t think , Missy. I know . I—am—going— that —way!” His finger shot up—pointing to the ceiling, through to the sky, up to the heavens. “That way!” he repeated. Now the finger was pointing at me, as he added, “And don’t you forget it!”
    He got up and walked away.
    Crazy boy, I thought. As matters turned out, I was wrong. Not crazy. Not crazy at all.
    The auditions went on, mechanically now. I was able, between notes, to return to my thoughts of Jean-Pierre and the vicarious gratification I needed now in temporary (I hoped) celibacy.
    His penis came to mind. I had seen a good many, many of them exciting, particularly in erection—but there was something unique about Jean-Pierre’s—a finely sculptured, perfectly proportioned, utterly charming appendage.
    I first saw it when we showered together, and my impulse was to kiss it. I did so. I went to my knees, put my hands behind him, and kissed his prick. It came to life, slowly and steadily, as I continued. The water was splashing over my head. I went on kissing it until it was strong and stiff. Jean-Pierre touched my head. I licked him, gently, but did not take him into my mouth, not yet. Better to wait, hold something back. I wanted him inside me, where soon he was to be.
    Oral sex, in its many manifestations had, up to now, been something of a turn-off for me. I did not much enjoy being sucked. I found it sometimes painful, often unsatisfying, and always faintly embarrassing. As to fellatio itself, I provided it gamely when it was called for, but found it difficult and uncomfortable. The only pleasure I ever derived from it was in the knowledge that I was giving great pleasure.
    Not so with Jean-Pierre. His organ, from the first, became a personal possession. I derived joy from the sight and touch of it. I felt power in being able to return it to erection often soon after it had been spent.
    My sexual life with Jean-Pierre was indeed a new world. Up to that time, it had been characterized as a desperate act. A contest. A war? A hunger. With Jean-Pierre, it was the loveliest of games, filled with joyous delight. We smiled a great deal as we fucked, and often laughed afterward, feeling triumphant.
    There were evenings of reading at home. Sometimes, we would read the same book and then discuss it deep into the night. Books were a kind of food to him.
    We explored the city together: restaurants, small museums, concerts, and when we felt flush—the wondrous sounds of the Met. The months went by like days.
    One Saturday afternoon. We have returned from Yankee Stadium. Yanks 8, Boston 7. (WP Hunter, 14-6; LP Tiant, 13-8.) Jean-Pierre is worn out from the excitement of the spectacle. I am exhausted as a result of trying to explain the game to him as it went along, and answering his too many questions. Two hot dogs apiece. Popcorn. Ice cream. Root beer.
    At home, we tear off our clothes…
    “Wake up, willya?” AC’s voice. “Jesus, I wish I had time to daydream,” he says. “Get me Ivan on the blower. You know where he is? At the shop, I think. Now!”
    “ I’ll find him.”
    I do so, and hand the phone to AC. How to describe Art Clune? He looks like an overweight Mickey Mouse. His voice is a rasp. No wonder. He spends a third of his life on the phone. He seems brittle, frightened, suspicious. Then, all at once, he will say something astonishingly witty and comical and win you. He has a slight tic. His eyes are very small.
    “Hello, Ivan. How we comin’?…Yeah?…No… No , I said. Nothin’ doin’. If I want to piss my money away, I’ll piss it away. I don’t need anybody to piss it away for