The Front Runner

fantasy-lover that every gay sees in his mind.
    I watched them through the door, simply stunned. For the first time, it was visible to me how deeply sexual Billy was, and how deep his sense of loss went. He was dancing that sense of loss right there in front of me.
    I decided that I had to see it from up closer. Walking in casually, I went over to one of the faculty sitting at a table and fabricated something very important to say to him. Then I spotted Jacques sitting in the front row of tables, and worked my way through the crowd toward him.
    Jacques was sitting engrossed, looking worship-fully at Vince. When I touched his arm, he jumped.
    "Just wanted to say I might be a little late for track practice tomorrow," I lied. "If I am late, don't look for me."
    "Oh sure, Mr. Brown." Jacques' eyes barely left Vince. He pulled me down in an empty chair, that had Billy's jacket hung over the back of it. "Hey, watch these guys, Mr. Brown. They're outrageous."
    There I was, right at ringside. The boys were dancing about twelve feet from me. "This is the kind of thing," I said, "that I told them they shouldn't do."
    "Oh, I think it's all right. Look at everybody. They just think it's very sexy heterosexual stuff. After all, the guys are dancing with girls . . ."
    I looked around. Judging by the students' faces, they had never seen anything quite like this before. A few started clapping to the beat, and pretty soon the whole room was clapping and stomping. I could hardly hear myself think.
    I watched a little nervously. On occasion I had seen this dance progress to pants falling, the dancer dexterously flipping his goodies around and finally jerking off magnificently. I couldn't believe these two would do that, especially Billy. If they did, they would be off the team tomorrow.
    They were really vibrating with the beat now. The students started shouting things at them.
    "Move it, Billy!"
    "Shake it, Vince!"
    "Hey, Vince, is that what they do out at Oregon?"
    "Naw," said Vince. "They do this in California."
    "Watcha got, Vince?" someone else shouted.
    "Eight inches," said Vince.
    I kept a straight face, but inside I was dismayed.
    The place erupted with whoops and wolf whistles. "Show it!" "Take it off!"
    "Don't provoke me," said Vince.
    Just at that moment, Billy saw me there. A blush actually went up through his speckled cheek. I communicated my disapproval with my eyes. Immediately, imperceptibly, the gay raunch went out of his movements, and he was doing a facsimile of straight boogie.
    Then I tried to catch Vince's eye, but he was joyfully engrossed in his movements. The shrieks, taunts, dares went on. Suddenly Vince laid his hand on his
    flanks and ran them slowly down to his thighs. The spectators looked at each other gleefully, and punched each other playfully.
    Vince ran his hands up and down a few more times, then unbuttoned the metal button at the waist of his jeans. Everybody howled and jumped up and down. Vince's body was really moving now, snapping, whipping, his hair tossing wildly. Very slowly he started to unzip his fly. His jeans slid down a little around his hips, showing a strip of torso under the hem of his T-shirt. All the tendons and muscles in it were working like a belly dancer's.
    I glanced at Jacques, who was now looking nervous too.
    "Well, supposing he does it?" said Jacques in a soft voice. "I mean, have you ever been at a rock concert? The musicians sometimes get dared to expose themselves, and they do..."
    "Billy!" they were now calling pleadingly.
    Billy shook his head, and kept dancing mechanically.
    Vince's zipper was now down far enough that we could see a little black pubic hair. Then, just as it looked like his pants were going to fall, he grinned and pulled them up again and zipped his fly. The whole room yowled with disappointment.
    Now they were after Billy. "Come on, Billy. Watcha got?"
    Suddenly Billy smiled. "Ten thousand meters," he said.
    Everybody groaned. "Goddam runners," said somebody behind me. "They're so fucking single-minded.".
    They begged and pleaded, but Billy was adamant. I thought more of him for it.
    The record ended, and the band hit its last jarring, whanging chords and bashes of cymbals. Vince stopped dancing and was hanging onto his female partner, laughing giddily. She didn't know it, but she had been subjected to some classic, gay teasing. Billy walked away from his partner, hesitated as he saw that he had to rescue his jacket from behind my shoulders, and