We were back from the Olympics, back from an extraordinary weekend at the Pike Lake cabin, and evidently over the blues that we had suffered since the Olympics.  We lay in bed, spooned as usual, but neither horny nor sleepy.  It was often the best time for conversation.  Tim opened it with, “You know, we both have doctoral dissertations to write, and this is the year when we have to pick topics, design research, and begin.  Any ideas?”

 

“I’m hoping to build on my success with Lincoln archives.”

 

“You aren’t hoping to find more Lincoln papers are you?”

 

“There must be more out there, but I haven’t any idea where they might be, and I certainly wouldn’t want a dissertation to depend on finding them.”

 

“What then?’

 

“I’m not sure.  I think I would like to study the corpus of Lincoln legal papers, including the ones we found, and see what conclusions might be drawn.  I’m a long way from defining a dissertation.  What about you?”

 

“I think it should relate to my hoped for role as the President of a small state university.”

 

“A good idea.  I wonder which one might employ you?”

 

“Montana, perhaps?”

 

“Right.  Go on about your dissertation.”

 

“I wrote a paper last spring about teacher evaluation.  With all the talk about merit pay, there has to be a way to objectively evaluate teachers.”

 

“How much has been published in that area?”

 

“Not much.  There hasn’t been much research.  There is beginning to be research about student evaluations of teachers, but it runs into a serious problem, as does all research into teacher evaluation.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“If you want to find out whether evaluation tool X can tell you who the good teachers are; in order to test X, you have to know who your good teachers are.  In other words, there has to be some other tool, Y, that you can use to establish a baseline with which to evaluate X.  We don’t have Y.”

“You mean that you can’t tell me who the good teachers were in your high school and college?”

 

“Sure I can.  But it’s just a gut feeling.  And my list might be very different from other students.  And teachers’ views of their peers are likely to be different.  One of the best studies was done in a large suburban high school and they used student success in the subject College Boards as a measure of teacher quality.  They then compared that to student evaluations of the teachers.  Guess what?  The students that did well on the College Boards thought they had good teachers and those that didn’t do well thought they didn’t.  What did that prove?”

 

“And you’re going to solve this problem?”

 

“Of course not.  But it could be a fruitful area of research.”

 

“Other ideas?”

 

“I am about to start on a paper comparing teaching techniques.  I have no idea where it will lead.  Of course, it won’t be a research paper, just a summary of existing research, if there is much.  There is a lot of criticism out there of the traditional lecture system,  despite its being used by virtually every high school and college around.  Nobody really has a good handle on alternatives to the lecture system.  I am hoping to at least codify some, and see if there is research on their effectiveness.”

 

“A good start, I guess.”

 

“You know, Charlie, I’m not very impressed with the graduate students in the School of Education.  I had an interesting talk about that with my advisor.  He agreed, and noted, with considerable regret, I think, that on average both graduate and undergraduate students in education are nearly at the bottom of all the standardized testing measures.”

 

“Isn’t that partly simply the fact that there is a large need for teachers in the society and thus the schools of education simply can’t be as picky as other professional schools?”

 

“Partly, but that doesn’t fully explain the statistics.  It also seems to reflect that a lot of people that can’t do much else decide to become teachers.”

 

“And the high demand for teachers makes it impossible to weed them out.”

 

“True.  But what does that say about our schools?”

 

“Not very much.  I was lucky, I had pretty good teachers in both high school and college.”

 

“So did I.  That’s partly because the better teachers, or at least the ones considered better, got to teach the good courses.  For teachers the good courses are the ones that attract the smart students.  So, in ninth grade, who teaches algebra, and who teaches remedial arithmetic?  You and I took algebra and got the better teachers.  Probably the kids that really needed the better teachers were taking remedial arithmetic.”

 

“You’re right.  You would have done well regardless of who the teacher was.”

 

“We don’t know that.  Everyone needs good teachers.  Where do we find them, and where to we find the money to pay them enough to stay in the system?’

 

“You’re the school administrator.”

 

“You’re the lawyer, and maybe the politician.  That’s where the solution lies.”

 

This was getting over my head, especially at eleven at night.  “Good night, Tim.”

 

“Good night, Charlie.”  Wiggle; wiggle.

 

Tickle; tickle.

 

We’d gotten pretty close to Marty after the trip to Munich together, and his living with us through the summer.  I think that he became our closest friend in Ann Arbor, and the only one with whom we had any kind of a sexual relationship.  Marty exercised excellent judgement regarding the frequency  of his suggestions of any kind of sex.  We enjoyed him, but obviously liked time to ourselves as well.  Marty liked two things, just sleeping in the bed with us from time to time and physical sex from time to time.  I think he might have enjoyed fucking as well, but he knew that was off limits and never suggested it.

 

That summer, if he wanted to sleep with us he would go upstairs to bed at the same time we did.  We knew that meant that he was hoping for an invitation to share our bed, and he usually got it.  He liked to go to sleep on his stomach, and would simply wiggle up so that as I spooned into Tim my butt would bump into his.  It felt good, and it seemed to nurture Marty as well.  If he wanted sex, he was more likely to come bouncing into our room in the morning about ten minutes before our alarm went off, his hard dick bouncing in our faces.  He never asked for anything, never begged, and never verbalized a suggestion of what he wanted.  He just stood there like a puppy dog.  He always got sucked by one of us, and he would gladly suck us back if we even hinted that we wanted it; sometimes we did!

 

Now that he had moved back into the dorm, he needed an invitation to our house.  He got dinner invitations frequently, and we enjoyed his company.  He always brought a brief case with homework and a change of underwear.  That way, if we invited him to stay the night, he could, and always did.  He was quite content to just sleep with us, but gladly accepted any offer of sex.  If I’d just say, “It would be fun to be jacked off right now,” Bingo! Marty would be there.

 

If Tim said, “I need a suck,” Marty would be there before me. 

 

If one of us asked him what he would like, he would always defer to us and say, “Whatever you’d like.”  He was always agreeable.  I am sure that that is what made him such fun to have around.

 

But he had little success finding a partner.  A young man in the Gay Liberation Movement came on to him.  The guy had a room off campus and invited Marty.  But the guy considered himself a “top” and had no interest in any other kind of sex.  Marty had been spoiled by the variety and creativity that the Gang brought to sex, as well as the equality.  Marty soon lost interest.

 

He met another young man, Harold, at a party.  Marty was pretty much out, even though he hadn’t made a big deal of it.  Harold approached him, and they dated a few times.  Marty said that Harold was pretty nice and they enjoyed each other’s company.  Harold lived in the dorm, and his roommate had no clue that he was gay.  On the other hand, Marty’s roommate, Parker, knew and was cool about it.  He would gladly be out of the room in the afternoon if Harold and Marty wanted privacy.  Sometimes he went home on weekends, and Harold and Marty had a good time together.  Marty never went into details of what they did, but they certainly had fun.  However, Marty came to realize that there had to be more than sex to a relationship, and he found that he and Harold didn’t really have much other than sex in common.  They simply dated less and less, and finally agreed that they would remain friends but end the sex.  That pretty much ended it.

 

Parker surprised Marty one night, not long after Harold had become history.  “Marty, do you remember that when you came out to me, you said we could sleep together if I wanted?”

 

“Sure, I remember.”

 

“I’d like to sleep with you tonight.”

 

“Just what did you have in mind, sharing a bed, or something more?”

 

“I guess something more.  I think I’m just curious.  Would that offend you?”

 

“No.  You’ve been really great as a roommate.  If you’d like to explore gay sex a little, I’m certainly willing.”

 

“Thanks, but I’m not sure what I’m asking for.”

 

“Take your clothes off, get into bed, and let me lead.  I’ll be gentle.”

 

“I trust you.”

 

Marty hugged him and kissed him a little, but realized that he was probably more interested in what happened below the waist.  Marty started with his hands, and moved to sucking him.  From his final movements, Marty guessed that he’d liked it pretty much. 

 

Marty was pretty sure that after he’d had an orgasm he wouldn’t want to experiment with sucking Marty.  Marty suggested that he jack Marty off, and that is what he did.  Marty ejaculated and then pulled him on top into the cum.  That may have startled him more than being sucked.  They slept for a while, but in the night Parker returned to his own bed.

 

The next evening Marty asked him if he’d like to suck Marty.  He answered, “Marty, if you’d like me too, I will.  I owe you.  But I think I learned what I wanted to learn last night.”

 

Marty said, “You don’t owe me anything.  First of all, I had fun last night, there is nothing to repay.  Second, you have been so understanding this year, you’d earned last night, regardless.”

 

About two weeks later, after he was in bed, Marty heard, “Marty, can I come over and suck you?”

 

“Sure.  Why now?”

 

“I’ve been thinking, and I’m really curious what it’s like.  I think I quit too soon.”

 

Parker sucked Marty, but had to spit the cum out.  Marty sucked him back.  And that was the end of their sexual relationship.  They did remain friends, but never were really close.  It had been an interesting experience for both.  Marty had kept us posted on the whole thing, day by day.  It was an interesting story to follow.

 

In the early fall Marty approached Tim and said, “I think I’d like to get back into gymnastics.”

 

“Back into gymnastics?  I didn’t know you had any background in gymnastics.”

 

“I started with a club in third grade.  I was fairly good.  But for high school I decided that I’d rather pursue a varsity sport instead of a club sport.  I started to wrestle at the Y in eighth grade and with the team in high school.

 

“And seven years later you had an Olympic gold medal.  That’s pretty impressive.”

 

“I guess.  But watching you makes me long for the apparatus.”

 

“Come to the gym with me this afternoon and let’s see what you can do.  Skip wrestling for once.”

 

They started on the pommel horse, and Marty was pretty rusty.  He did a little better on the parallel bars.  That he could do anything on the rings, cold turkey, was amazing, but he had kept his strength up through his wrestling.  For safety reasons Tim didn’t want him on the vault or the high bars until he had gotten further along.  His floor exercises were pretty sloppy, but he could do a couple of flips and simple moves.  Tim was impressed.  “You haven’t been on this equipment for seven years?”

 

“Haven’t touched it.  I put everything into wrestling.  Once I quit the gymnastics club there was no equipment available; our high school didn’t have it.  I’ve never touched it here at the University.”

 

“How serious are you about getting back into it?  You know, you haven’t got a chance at competitive gymnastics as this stage.”

 

“I know that.  But as I have been thinking about the future I think I’d like to teach gymnastics.  I’d prefer that over wrestling.”

 

Tim said, “Well, I’m here almost every day at either three or five, depending on my diving.  I can always tell you one day about the next.  Join me whenever you can.”

 

Tim reported to me, “You know, Charlie, he’s way out of shape, though he’s better than I would have expected after seven years.  The wrestling saved him.  But I watched his moves carefully.  He was taught well.  He’s lost his form, but he’s making the right fundamental moves.  He just has to let it all come back.  He isn’t going to have to unlearn bad moves.”

 

Tim was right, Marty improved very rapidly.  He asked to be invited onto the University team and was accepted.  He wasn’t good enough to qualify for a meet until the last meet of the year, but he was so much improved that he edged out both the sixth and fifth place men on the six man University team.  It was a five school meet, and Marty took a second on the parallel bars.  He was really thrilled.  Michigan won the meet, and Marty’s second provided key points for the win.  He wasn’t exactly a hero, but both he and the coach were very happy, as was Tim.

 

That night Tim insisted that Marty make his preferences plain.  “OK.  A steak dinner and then 69 with you.”

 

He got both.

 

Tim’s paper on teaching methods was well received, and his professor encouraged him to try to get it published.  Tim didn’t tell him that it had already been submitted to the journal Higher Education.  A month later Tim was able to tell his professor that it had been accepted for publication.  Tim had started final editing.  He shared the article with his Ph.D. advisor and discussed whether it might be the basis for his dissertation.  That suggestion was met enthusiastically and Tim was on his way.  He began working on a formal proposal.

 

In the 1950's the Abraham Lincoln Society in Springfield, Illinois, had published the complete papers of Abraham Lincoln.  This multivolume collection made it possible for scholars to do research into the writings of Lincoln without traveling to various archives all over the country.  In addition, I had my copy of the microfilm of all of the Lincoln papers that had been found in Illinois courthouses as a result of the searches that I initiated.  I looked over the corpus and decided that there was enough material to delve seriously into a study of Lincoln’s philosophy of law.  I presented my ideas to my advisor, and then to my doctoral committee.  I was given the go ahead to prepare a specific proposal.

 

Tim and I were both on track to complete our dissertations on time and get our doctorates a year from April. 

 

For Thanksgiving of that year, 1972, we got an unexpected invitation.  Wayne and Irma invited us for Thanksgiving Dinner.  Mom had left the house to Wayne and Irma, and they had decided that they would live there.  Gill and Anita had gotten additional money to balance the value of the house, and I had gotten the cabin in Michigan.  However, there was still ill will over the fact that Wayne and I had gotten the house and cabin.  We all knew why: mom never forgave Gill for his inability to accept Tim.  Well, it was really Anita, but Gill had backed her, and it had created a rift in the family that never healed.  Now that Mom was gone, Wayne and Gill rarely saw each other.  This Thanksgiving Gill and Anita “simply had” to be at her parents’ Thanksgiving dinner.  I really don’t think that either Wayne or I were particularly disappointed.  Gill did come over for a short while on Friday, but Anita had a headache and couldn’t come.

 

Thanksgiving dinner was fun.  Wayne had invited some cousins that I hadn’t seen in years and whom Tim had never met.  They were completely thrilled to meet Tim, the celebrity in the family, and thoroughly enjoyed meeting him and asking him endless questions.  Between the two families of cousins there  were three teenage boys; all three were thrilled to meet Tim.  However, their sports were basketball and football, the two sports that Tim was least likely to be able to assist anybody in.  He did have the common sense not to wax eloquent on the subject of love and support.  He remembered Bo Schembechler’s comments on that subject in regard to football and kept his mouth shut.  He did suggest that if they could get up to Ann Arbor we could arrange for them to meet “Bo.”  That was greeted with almost as much enthusiasm as Tim’s invitation to Billy for night diving.

 

I enjoyed spending the night in my old room, even if it still had a single twin bed.  Tim reminded me of the need for him to start to bed in the guest room and be sure to rumple the sheets.  We laughed.  That was how Mom had first dealt with our homosexuality.  It was her form of acceptance. She had grown a lot, and remarkably quickly.  How lucky we had been to have the families we did.  In all of our families, Anita was the only failure.  We didn’t have a clue how to solve that one.

 

I called my high school friend David’s house and to my surprise he answered the telephone.  He and Mike were also in town for Thanksgiving.  We arranged to have lunch together on Saturday.  We learned that they were now living in Pasadena, where both of them were on the Cal Tech faculty.  They were out, shared a house, and were successful engineers.  It was great to have a chance to get caught up on their goings on.  Tim couldn’t resist asking, “Are you guys still exclusive in your commitment, or are you venturing out into the gay California world?”

 

David answered, “I take it from the way that question is phrased that you and Charlie don’t keep your hands to yourselves?”

 

“Certainly not.”

 

“Would you have sex with us tonight?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Well, we wouldn’t.  We haven’t changed.  Though I’ll have to admit the suggestion is really tempting.”

 

Mike said, “But we get tempted a lot.  However, we both feel that we’d rather just be tempted.  We have been totally exclusive since we first made that decision.”

 

I said, “Good for you.  I don’t for a minute believe that what is right for me is right for everybody.  Stick to your beliefs.”

 

Tim said, “I hope that I am at least going to get a chance to kiss you both goodbye later this afternoon.”

 

Mike said, “I remember the last kiss from you.  You know, Tim, I think that you and David may be the only two people that I’ve ever tongued in kissing.”

 

I said, “Well, you can add number three today: me.”

 

David said, “Just keep your hands above the waist and this will be fun.”

 

Tim asked, “No holds barred above the waist, is that right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“I’m eager already.”

 

After lunch we went back to David’s house to continue our conversation.  As soon as we got there David ran upstairs and came back down with an old issue of Scientific American.  He said, “Look at the ‘Mathematical Games’ column.”

 

I did.  It was the issue that had the question about the math professor and his children in the back yard–the question that David and I had worked on one day, years before.  A day when we had both wondered about coming out to the other, and both of us had chosen silence.  David said, “After the four of us  talked about that evening long ago, I looked up the issue and found an old copy at a bookstore in Boston.  I couldn’t resist buying it.  I’ve kept it here hoping that one day I could give it to you.”

 

“God, thanks, David.  That’s really nice.  Tim, we’ll have fun looking at these problems.  And I, at least, will remember a special night, long ago.”

 

Tim said, “And I will be damn glad that you both were so shy or scared that neither of you could talk to the other.”

 

Mike said, “I’ll second that.”

 

It was time to say goodbye.  Tim fooled us all.  He said, “OK, I very clearly heard David say that the rule is nothing below the waist.  Fine.  Get those shirts off.  Right now.”

 

David started to unbutton his shirt without thinking.  Then he stopped, thought for a minute and burst out laughing.  Soon Mike and I joined in.  Tim wasn’t laughing; he was taking off his shirt.  “Come on.  Shirts off.”

 

We all complied.  Then Tim went over to David, hugged him tight, kissed him deeply.  Then his mouth moved down to David’s nipples and he sucked them in turn.  Then back to kissing.  Mike and I got into the act and followed suit.  Then Tim broke with David and moved over to Mike.  I held David.  We wrapped our arms around each other.  Naked to the waist, skin to skin, it was really thrilling.  We kissed.  Deeply.  Lovingly.  Long.  Hard.  I was certainly wondering about what might have been, and I was sure that David was doing the same.

 

Finally, Mike broke with Tim and said, “Thank you, Tim.  That was wonderful.”

 

David kissed Tim gently and said, “It sure was.  Come visit us in California.  Who knows, if you’re around very long we just might have to rethink the rules of engagement.”

 

Tim said, “It’s a date.  Pasadena.  Maybe Rose Bowl a year from January.  How about it?”

 

Mike said, “We’ll be waiting.”

 

We headed back to my house, well, Wayne’s house, to a nice dinner that Irma had cooked for us.  Sunday we drove back to Ann Arbor, having spent a most delightful weekend; however, saddened by the fact that the rift with Gill and Anita seemed unable to be healed.

 

We knew that Christmas was bearing down upon us, but we hadn’t made any plans.  If we mentioned it around Marty, he sort of froze up and looked glum.  We realized that he was approaching his first Christmas since he had told his family he was gay, and so was unwelcome in his own home.  As Tim and I thought about Christmas, Tim said, “Whatever we decide to do, Marty has to be included.”

 

I agreed.  We knew that Mom and Dad, i.e. Norman and Betsy, would welcome us, and would welcome Marty as well.  But somehow, doing something more exciting at Christmas seemed in order, but we didn’t have a clue what.  Then we got a call from Fred.  “What are you guys doing for Christmas?”

 

“We don’t have anything planned, yet,” I told him.  “Got any ideas?”

 

“Yes, I do.  It’s winter, you have to go south if you are going to enjoy Christmas.  I don’t want to be hot in the tropics.  Let’s go way south.  Pick a city way south and let’s go.”

 

“Any city?”

 

“One you’d like to visit.”

 

“You’re talking about the southern hemisphere, like South Africa, South America, Australia, that kind of south?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Can I talk to Tim and call you back.”

 

“Hell, no.  Give me a city that you’d like to go to.  I’ll set it up.”

 

“We have to invite Marty to go with us; Tim and I decided just a few days ago that we had to include him at Christmas.”

 

“Bring him along.  Maybe I should call him and get him to name the city, since you seem to be so reticent.”

 

“Good idea.”  I gave Fred his phone number, wondering what I was letting myself in for.

 

About twenty minutes later Fred called back.  “Well, guys, Marty didn’t have any trouble naming a city.  It took him all of about ten seconds–after he figured out that I was serious.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Alice Springs.”

 

“Where is that?  Never heard of it.”

 

“Right in the middle of Australia.”

 

“Australia?”

 

“Yes.  You do know where that is, don’t you?”

 

“Yes, Fred, I do.  But I have a hard time imagining our going there for Christmas.”

 

“Well, this is the first time I’ve known you to be short on imagination.  Now, what’s your schedule?  This is a long trip, we want as many days as possible.”  We were able to work it out to leave on Thursday, the 21st and get back on Thursday the 4th of January.  We’d have exactly 15 days.  Fred continued, “Now, remember, this is a trip to Alice Springs, not to all of Australia.  I think its going to be fun.  Do you guys have passports?”  We did, of course, with the Olympics and other international competition in our recent past. 

 

It wasn’t very many minutes before Marty was at our door.  “Guys, Fred just called me and asked me to name a city in the southern hemisphere that I’d like to visit.”

 

“We know.  And you said, ‘Alice Springs.’  And now we are going there for Christmas.  You’d better like Alice Springs when you get there!”

 

“I didn’t know what he had in mind.  But I do think Alice Springs would be fun to visit.”

 

“What do you know about Alice Springs?”

 

“Not long ago I read the book, A Town Like Alice, by the popular English author, Nevil Shute.  He’s one of my favorites.  The second half of the book takes place in the fictional town of Alice, Australia, but it’s really Alice Springs.  The first half of the book takes place in Malaya or Sumatra or someplace, during World War II.  A woman meets a soldier who is always talking about, “A town like Alice” until he is killed by the Japanese.  The woman has a terrible time during the war, but at the end decides she’d like to see Alice.  Of course, the soldier wasn’t killed, but survived;  they meet in Alice, are a key part of the growth of the town, and live happily ever after.  Alice, really Alice Springs, just sounded like a neat place.  I guess we’re going there for Christmas!”

 

Tim said, “I guess we are.”

 

We were.  Fred made all of the arrangements, and all we were told was that we were to drive to Chicago and meet him at  O’Hare Airport at noon on Thursday.  Our flight left at 1:30, non-stop to Los Angeles.  Then to Hawaii, Fiji, and Sydney, Australia.  From Sydney we took the Great Southern Railroad’s Indian Pacific to Adelaide, and from there the famous train, The Ghan, to Alice Springs.  One night on the plane and three nights on the train.  What a trip.  Exhausting, but exhilarating.  The desert scenery coming north from Adelaide was spectacular, and you really got to understand why the middle of Australia is called the Red Center. 

 

I think that Marty was a little disappointed in Alice Springs.  The novel had been written in 1949, and by 1972 the remote, frontier atmosphere of the town depicted in the novel was gone.  Alice Springs was a fairly robust city, the administrative center of the entire region, and the jumping off place for many trips to the outback.  That did make it an exciting place, and we arrived the day after Christmas, having spent Christmas on The Ghan.  If you are trying to figure out the date, we left on the 21st, spent four nights enroute, and crossed the International Date Line. 

 

On the plane we had three seats together and one across the aisle.  We traded off often so that no one was left out for long.  When Fred was across the aisle, and sleeping, Marty quizzed us about our sexual relationship to Fred.  We told him that Fred was adamant that he wanted to be treated as “one of the boys” and that Marty should think of him that way.  Treat him just the way you might have treated Andy the first time you met him.  Tim added, “By the way, I think that you and Fred are going to be sharing a compartment on the train, because Charlie and I are spending Christmas together.”

 

Later, in Alice, Marty told us of their nights on the train.  The four of us had sat together during the afternoon heading to Adelaide, and talked about plans and ideas for the trip.  We ate a late dinner together in the diner, and found when we went back to our car that the beds had been made up.  Fred and Marty headed to their compartment.  Fred had simply announced, “Marty I hope you are ready to share a bed, because I sure as Hell don’t want to sleep alone on this trip.”  Marty had been ready.  Fred calmly took off his clothes, sat on the little toilet in the compartment, and climbed into bed naked.  Marty followed suit.  Fred had been laying on his side with his back to the wall, and Marty spooned in in front of him, wondering what would come next.  Marty decided that if it had been a young man his own age he would ask, “What do you hope happens tonight?”  So, he asked, “What do you hope happens tonight?”

 

Fred replied, “Tonight, Marty, I am tired as Hell.  I want to sleep.  I think I’ll sleep better hugging you, and my hands might roam a little, but I expect to sleep before anything happens.  Tomorrow night, look out.”

 

That’s exactly what happened, because Marty was as tired as Fred. That pretty much described the activities in our compartment as well.

 

We changed trains in Adelaide, and had enough time to look around a little.  It would be two nights on The Ghan to Alice Springs, with Christmas Day spent on the train.  The train was comfortable; the service good; the food certainly OK if not gourmet; the beds narrow, and the scenery fantastic.  We happily spent Christmas Day looking out the window at the Australian outback.  Tim had set the ground rules for our sex in a discussion the first night en route to Adelaide: “Charlie, Christmas Eve you are going to fuck me, and Christmas night I am going to fuck you, or the other way around if you prefer.”  I didn’t care, so we went in the order he proposed.  Clearly he intended that we climax together, and indeed we did.  I put him on his back, readied him with my tongue, lubed him good, entered gently, banged him pretty hard because that’s what I knew he liked, and grabbed his dick to bring him at the right moment.  Wonderful.  Kissee, kissee, sleep.  I’m not sure why, but Tim preferred to enter me from the rear the next night.  Once in me, he just draped himself over my back and lay there, slowly coming to life and fucking me very gently.  His hand grabbed at the right moment and he timed the climaxes perfectly.  The he flipped me on my side, fell in beside me, and we hugged tightly.  We were pretty well slept out from two previous nights on the train and little exercise during the day, so we lay and talked.  We both had it in us for another round before sleep got to us, and we sucked each other, very late on Christmas night, 1972.  Merry Christmas, Tim.  Merry Christmas, Charlie.

 

In the other compartment neither one was ready for fucking, but they were both very happy with sucking.  Both nights.  Merry Christmas, Fred.  Merry Christmas, Marty.

 

We had seven full days and eight nights in Alice.  We arranged short trips into the outback; wandered all over town; took two days to visit and climb Ayers Rock; found the local swimming pool and relaxed in the water most of one day; attempted to learn something about the aboriginal culture, but found that was impossible in a short period of time unless you wanted the superficial tourist version; and fell in love with a strange aboriginal musical instrument, the didgeridoo.  We attended a didgeridoo concert and got not only an evening of incredibly fascinating and beautiful music, but also a lesson.  The instrument is about five feet long, but it varies a lot, and about two inches in diameter.  The wood is hollowed out by white ants and then cleaned out.  You blow in the end, but make the sound by letting your lips vibrate.  The noise is continuous, as the cheeks become an air bladder, and the tongue forces air out even while the musician takes a breath through the nose to fill the cheeks.  A second sound can be created simultaneously with the vocal cords.  Frankly, the music sounds as improbable as the explanation.  We simply had to bring one home with us!  I made it my business to learn how to play it.  But that’s later in this story.

 

We hated to leave, and were certainly sorry that we didn’t have time to explore a lot more of this vast nation.  But we concluded that Fred had been right to insist that we come to one city and see it well, rather than trying to see too much in a mere two weeks.  We knew that someday we would come back to Australia.

 

We flew home, spending one night in Sydney.  About the only thing that I remember from our very brief stay in Sydney is the Opera House, which was scheduled to open later in 1973.  The stunning exterior was essentially complete at the time of our visit, and we had a wonderful opportunity to see the new building.

 

We realized when we got to Chicago that we had made a stupid decision to drive to Chicago from Ann Arbor, rather than fly from Detroit.  Driving had seemed like a good idea when Fred had suggested it, because there were three of us, and it’s an easy drive from Ann Arbor to Chicago.  Coming home we really couldn’t face the drive home, and Fred insisted that it would be dangerous for us to drive that far when we were so tired.  Fred solved the problem in his usual, unflappable manner.  He called a local limousine service and hired a driver to drive to Ann Arbor.  The man would spend the night at our house, and the next morning we would put him on the airport shuttle to Detroit airport, from which he would fly back to Chicago.  I don’t know what it cost Fred, and Fred didn’t care.  It got us home safely, and the driver was happy; very happy after we gave him the tip that Fred had given us to give him if the trip went satisfactorily, which it certainly did.

 

The driver, who introduced himself as Happy Harry, was fascinated to be driving Tim and Charlie, and he even recognized Marty as an Olympic medal winner.  By the time we had gotten to Ann Arbor we had learned that Happy Harry was not only happy, but gay.  He had a partner named Dan, and they both drove for the same limousine service.  They seemed happy in their jobs and their life together.  Harry said, “But is Dan ever going to be mad to learn that I got to drive you three, and spend the night in your house.  Wow.  Nobody will believe me at the Pointe.”  We learned that the Pointe was a favorite gay bar on the north side of Chicago.

 

1973 was upon us.  Honestly, it wasn’t a particularly special year.  Our studies and dissertations went forward.  We taught our classes.  Tim taught an interesting one called the Philosophy of Coaching.  He would have called it Love and Support in Coaching, but that wouldn’t fly.  But that’s what it was.  One student wrote a particularly interesting analysis of football and how Tim’s concept of love and support might apply.  If he had read the paper, Bo wouldn’t have let that kid any closer to a football team than he would have let Tim!  Tim loved it, kept a copy to take to UND, and told me to keep my thoughts to myself.  I did; I knew better than to pursue that particular discussion.  I taught a class on the history of tort reform, getting additional mileage out of my law school paper.  I quickly realized that in the 20th century tort reform was more of a political issue than a legal one.  No matter what I said, I upset one faction or the other in the class.  It was fun, I worked hard at upsetting everyone and easily succeeded.

 

With the Olympics behind him, Tim had to make some decisions about gymnastics.  Would he continue to keep in shape and keep up his practice?  If so, what performance level would he try to maintain?  Would he continue competing?  How long, a set period of time, or until he could no longer make a reasonable claim on being number one in the world?  How long could he sustain that if he tried?  Was Tor about to catch him?  Who else?

 

Tim struggled with those issues more than his usual amount.  Normally, he could make up his mind on things like that with little trouble, and once he made up his mind, he stuck with his decision.  “Charlie, I haven’t had this hard a decision since ninth grade when I tried to decide between diving and gymnastics and chose both.  That decision didn’t seem so hard, once I realized that the conventional wisdom–that I had to choose–was nuts.  That was when I tried to put conventional wisdom behind me.  Now the conventional wisdom would tell me to quit, and I’m not sure but what it’s right.  Help me.”

 

Just exactly how was I going to help him?  I had decided to hang up my archery, and in fact we had had a little bit of a ceremony in which Timmy was retired to a honored spot on one of our walls.  But my love affair had always been with Tim, not archery.  Tim’s love affair was with diving and gymnastics.  Then I realized that the answer was simple.  Tim had a love affair with diving, and only quit because he placed a higher value on Billy than on his competing in diving.  Didn’t he owe the same thing to Tor?

 

When I put it to him that way, his decision came very easily.  “OK, Charlie, here’s my plan.  I want to keep up my gymnastics, but it is time to let Tor, and a whole new generation, start having their chance at the top.  I am going to compete in individual invitationals and that’s it.  Someone else can compete for gold medals in the US and Tor can try to claim the spot as number one in the world.  I’ll get more invitations to compete than I want to accept, and that will keep me in top form.  And I think I’d like to let that state of affairs rule for an indefinite time.  See, Charlie, you did help me when I asked.”

 

The only problem with that decision was that for a number of years every time somebody was declared a national champion in one of the top meets, somebody else would always say, “But Tim wasn’t here.  Did you see him last month in ...?”  Whenever he was asked about that, Tim always said, “The only people that count are those that enter the race.  Jim (or John or Phil) won, nobody should speculate about someone who didn’t enter.”

 

A young girl, Judy Freeman, a freshman in the fall of 1972, joined the diving team.  Tim noticed that she was quite good, and it wasn’t long before she sought him out.  Could he give her some advice on her diving?  Well, of course, he could.  She joined him at the pool a few days and he watched her dive, gave her some pointers, and demonstrated his comments with his own diving–the standard approach that he took with all divers that asked for help.  One night at dinner with me he mused, “Charlie, Judy is pretty good.  But we haven’t connected in the same way that Billy and I connected.  What’s the difference?  I can’t believe that it’s because she’s a girl and Billy was a boy, and I’m gay.  Somehow that night Billy and I connected in a way that I never have with another diver.  I get the feeling that ought to happen with Judy, but it hasn’t.”

 

“Think about that night with Billy.  What went on up on that platform that hasn’t happened since.”

 

“I’m not sure.  Wait, I have an idea.  You know, up on the platform I asked Billy about himself, his school, how he started diving, and similar questions.  Nothing deep, but it wasn’t about the dive he was about to make.  Then I just said, ‘Do your best dive,’ and he did.  He came back up on the platform and I simply said, ‘That was terrific,’ and we went back to talking about him, the boy, the student, the son, the diver.  Then he dove again, and I followed.  We began talking about his dives, but talk of him, and later me, as a person was always in the mix.  With Judy it’s just been technical stuff about diving.  We have to establish the personal relationship first.  And don’t forget that with Billy we had that business of him standing in line, a drive and dinner, and then the drive to the pool.  He had been exposed to Gang magic before we climbed up to that platform.  How do I recreate that with Judy?”

 

“Do you want to?  Billy was an enormous time commitment.”

 

“If she could be as good as Billy, it would be worth it.”

 

“Invite her to dinner.  The only Gang member around is Marty, but we’ll invite him.  Get to know her.  See what develops.”

 

“It almost sounds like I am plotting a romance.”

 

“That’s pretty much what it was with Billy.  It still is, as you well know.  Are you ready for Judy?”

 

“At least she’s of age.  We could have gotten hung for some of the things we were thinking about Billy–at age 14.”

 

“Thinking, not doing, at least until age 18.”

 

“I’ll invite Judy.”

 

It was a lovely dinner.  We went out of our way to make the meal nice and the setting romantic–yes, romantic.  Cornish game hens with wild rice, candlelight, tablecloth and cloth napkins, baked Alaska for dessert, soft music, and Charlie and Marty as chaperones.  I’m not quite sure what Judy made of the whole business, but she certainly was willing to talk about herself in that setting.  She was from Kalamazoo, an only child, spoiled by loving parents, but it didn’t seem to have affected her, and she had had a love affair with water and diving ever since she was a little girl.  High school state champion from the platform, and third in state from the springboard.  Athletic scholarship to UM.

 

“Grades?”

 

“Mostly A’s.”

 

Tim didn’t respond in the usual manner.  He wasn’t yet ready to commit himself to this young lady.

 

He took her to a lovely dinner after diving practice that week.  The next day she kidded him that her roommate, a competitive swimmer, was teasing her about her romance with a gay man.  She asked, “Tim, is this a romance?  You are gay, aren’t you?”

 

“Sure it’s a romance.  But the romance is with diving, not some gay man.  But diving can’t take you to dinner, a gay man can.  Just think of me as a substitute for the abstract concept of diving; that’s what you’re in love with.  And tomorrow, we start intense work on the platform.”

 

Did they ever?  Tim could be a relentless task master.  He poured it on.  Judy never flinched, never complained, always was willing to do more.  After a week Tim said, “It’s time for another dinner at my house.  With Charlie and Marty, to keep us honest.”

 

At that dinner Tim put it to Judy just as he had to Billy.  How bad did she want to be at the top?  Was she willing to devote every waking moment to the quest?  Would she follow Tim’s advice without question? 

 

“Just how good do you think I am?”

 

“Pretty good.  But you asked the wrong question.  The question should have been, ‘Just how good do you think I can be?’”

 

“OK.  Just how good do you think I can be?”

 

“The best in the world.”

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

“I don’t kid about stuff like that.  The last person I said that to was Billy Carson.  He is, right now, the best in the world and has been for four years.  And he got there in two years.  You can take at least one, and probably two, medals at the Montreal Olympics.  But you just heard me say what the commitment had to be.  Total.  Absolutely total.  If you want to know what that means, call Billy Carson.  Talk to him.  Ask him.  He’ll scare you more than I can.”

 

“I don’t need to call Billy.  I know what he would say.  My only hesitation is I simply don’t know whether I am capable of that kind of total commitment.”

 

“I know you are capable of it.  If I didn’t think you were, I wouldn’t be asking you.  But you have to decide.  No looking back.  If you look back, it’s all over.  Regrets kill it.  Second thoughts kill it.  Yes;  we go forward.  Anything else, and it’s been fun, kid.  I’ll be glad to give you pointers on your dives, but that’s it.”

 

Tim didn’t know what hit him.  All of a sudden here was this flying female, five inches taller than he, sailing into his lap, grabbing him around his neck, kissing him wildly, tongue and all.  When they broke apart she simply said, “Yes.  When do we start?”

 

Tim said, “Right now”, grabbed her and kissed her just as hard as she had him.  Marty and I watched for a while, and then started clearing the dessert dishes from the table.  Only when we had finished clearing, did Judy and Tim come up for air.  Tim said, “Charlie.  Marty.  I would like you to meet Judy, forget the last name, the next Olympic gold medalist in platform diving.”

 

Before the winter diving season was over Judy was the top diver on the University of Michigan women’s team, unheard of for a freshman.   I wondered if we were getting another member of the Gang.  Only time would tell.

 

Tim took Bo to lunch and used Judy as an example of the value of love and support.  He also told Bo of my cousins and asked if Bo and his wife would come to dinner when the boys were in town.  Bo was more than willing.

 

Tim and I invited my cousins and their boys up for a weekend.  We included Wayne and Irma, but they declined–a dinner with the University of Michigan football coach wasn’t high on their priorities list.  I think that that was true of my adult cousins as well, but not of their boys.  They came up Friday after school and work, arriving after dinner.  They hadn’t been in the house more than a minute to two before Brad, the oldest and biggest of the boys and the football player, asked, “Are we really going to meet Bo?  Of “Goody, goody, Bo beat Woody!” bumper sticker fame?”

 

“Yes, you are,” I said.

 

Tim said, “But the bumper sticker this year was “Oh, oh, Woody beat Bo.”  14 to 11 as a matter of fact.”

 

I asked, “How do you know that?  I didn’t think you paid much attention to football.”

 

“Charlie, this is Ann Arbor.  If you’re half alive you know the results of the Michigan-Ohio State game.”

 

“I guess that makes me half dead.”

 

Brad said, “When are we going to meet Bo?”

 

“Tomorrow at the stadium.  We’ll see him in his office and then get a tour of the 101,001 stadium–but I don’t think Bo will be leading the tour.”  Tim very carefully didn’t mention dinner, and had asked Bo not to when they met in the morning.

 

The parents filled the two guest rooms and we put the boys to sleep in sleeping bags in the living room.  The next morning Tim woke them up as he went down to fix breakfast.  The house had been fairly warm, and the boys had sort of crawled out of their bags during the night.  Tim couldn’t help but notice that all three had slept nude.  He wondered whether that meant anything.  Who knew?  Who cared?

 

We headed off to the stadium, and did meet Bo in his office.  He was very pleasant with the boys, showed them around a little, asked about their sports, and then quizzed Brad about his football experience.  Brad was pretty good, but not in the league that might make it to the Michigan team.  That didn’t bother Bo, who was still interested in how he did, what position he played,  and his successes during the year.  The other two boys got less questions because they were basketball players.  Bo apologized for that, and apologized that the Michigan basketball coach couldn’t meet them, but he was out of town with the team.

 

An assistant coach gave us a complete tour of the stadium facilities, and then we toured the families around the rest of the university and the town.  It killed most of the day.  We headed back home and got dinner, a standing rib roast–cooked very rare, ready.  The doorbell rang, and I asked Brad to get it.  There were Mr. and Mrs. Bo Schembechler standing at the door.  Brad was speechless, but his brother came to the door and said, “Brad, invite them in.”

 

He did, and in they came.  It was quite an evening.  Bo was fascinating and the boys ate it up.  He and Tim had a rousing discussion about love and support in football, and neither convinced the other.  The rest of us just sat back in awe as the two argued.  Brad even entered in a couple of times–on Bo’s side.  My only contribution was to agree with Bo that Tim should not be allowed near a football team.  The boys would have wonderful stories to tell back at their Indianapolis high schools.