The Front Runner

whisper some request. My whole life was in every touch of his mouth or hands on my body. Just his warm hair brushing my thighs made me shake all over. At first our bodies were dry, but shortly an iridescent sweat came out on us. We kept looking at each other. His face was grave, absorbed, alight.
    Finally, when we'd prolonged it till we hurt, we let ourselves get frantic. We lost control then. I remember, with a terrible clarity, the heat of his driving body on my back, and the low gasping animal cries that he gave as he came, and his weight on me for a long time after, lips against my neck, hair falling forward on both our heads.
    Finally he drew a sigh. "That was worth waiting a week and running a world record for."
    We took a shower together and horsed around a little, laughing. Then we pulled bathrobes on, and I phoned down to order our dinner sent up.
    Billy ate hungrily, going heavy on potatoes and other carbohydrates to finish the glycogen-packing. He was now his usual relaxed self. We talked as if we were home, about the plans we had for the gay studies program, about how we'd defend our privacy, about things we'd like to do.
    "Steve wants us to come out to Fire Island before the seasons ends," I said. "You've never seen it in the fall. It's beautiful."
    "I'll bet," he said, his eyes sparkling. "Are there big storms in the fall too?"
    He took off his robe and slipped the chain of the gold medal over his head. It looked indecently beautiful on his bare chest. He walked around a little with macho seductiveness.
    "I never knew you were so perverse," I said.
    He laughed. "Neither did I." He took the medal off.
    We went back to bed and had another mild one. Then we lay together talking, the blanket over us. He was deeply relaxed now, his eyes soft and vague. Our conversation turned to the direction his next few years of running would take.
    "I'd like to try the marathon again," he said. "I ran a 2:22 that summer with Vince, in the Golden Gate. With the speed I've got now, I ought to be able to do a 2:12 right off."
    The vaguest unease crossed my mind. It was one of the rare occasions when he mentioned those years with Vince. As always, I asked myself if they'd been lovers, and then asked myself what difference it made—except that Vince was still around and could conceivably someday take him away from me. His friendship with Vince had outlasted any of his loves, including (so far) his for me.
    Out loud, I agreed about the marathon. It's axiomatic in running that the outstanding 10,000 man is often
    outstanding as a marathoner, because the same type of training works for both.
    I teased him a little. "You just want to run marathons because it's more miles."
    He laughed, warm against me. "You should have seen Vince and me. We were a couple of nuts. Vince had never ran farther than fifteen miles. The most I'd done was about twenty. But we were very sure of ourselves. We went out at a 5-minute pace and we were just having a ball. We were in second place, running together. Then along about sixteen miles, Vince's knees started hurting. I think his knee troubles date from that race. Anyway, he couldn't hold the pace and he told me to go on. So I did, and I thought, this is a snap. I was on for about a 2:16. Then the guy in the lead, Gerry Moore, eased up a little and I passed him. Gee wow, I thought, I'm gonna win this thing. And then about the 22-mile mark, I just fell apart."
    We were both laughing, in each other's arms.
    "That man with the hammer really knocked me on the head," said Billy. "So of course I had to ease off, and Moore passed me, and a couple other guys passed me. I came in fourth with a 2:22.35, and I felt so bad after the race that I couldn't eat. Poor Vince walked in, I think he got a 2:50. That was his last marathon. He says the marathon is too goddamn far."
    "Well," I said, "you've been a good boy, so I'll let you run a marathon or two, and we'll see how you do."
    "Maybe you could run them with me. You could run unofficially. I'd like that."
    "I couldn't stay up with you. I could do a 2:45, maybe."
    He was gazing softly, getting sleepy. "We have to start thinking about 1980. We could double in the 10,000 and the marathon that time."
    "You're going to be a busy father by then," I said.
    "Yeah," he said. "We have to start fox-hunting when we get back."
    I gave him a massage. He kept saying it felt so good.
    "Poor Vince," he said softly, his eyes closed. "He ought to find somebody. He's so