The Front Runner

were ripped, and there were butts and papers underfoot.
    Song of the Loon will never be seen on the "Late Late Show." It is a classic old gay film, very amateurish, very erotic, very hard to forget.
    So Billy and I sat side by side without speaking to each other. Now and then I stole a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He was sitting slid down a little, his eyes fixed on the screen. He looked sad and depressed, and had his clenched hands against his mouth. I felt a depression of my own. On the screen, the two lovers were swimming in the lake and looking at each other's nudity, and I was forcibly reminded of Chris. When they started to make love on the grass, I noticed that Billy looked down. I turned my head and looked at him. He was sitting with eyes shut, his clenched hands pressed against his opened lips, gnawing on his knuckles. He shifted a little in the seat, his thighs apart.
    I reached over and touched his clenched hands. I took them and drew them toward me. He looked at me a little dazedly, his lips still open, as if not believing that I had touched him.
    "I have a lot of apologizing to do to you," I said softly. I was shaking all over. At last I was ready to let go of my self-control. Was there any real reason why I had to live my whole life without having loved a single human being?
    "I've never meant to be cruel," I said. "Maybe you won't understand why I behaved the way I did."
    He was staring at me in disbelief, his lips parted, his eyes glittering with pain in the silvery fight from the screen. A visible shudder of emotion went through his body.
    "Then," he said in that strange broken voice, lowered to a hoarse whisper, "my father was right."
    He pulled his hands away from mine. That was the most terrible single moment of my life. It was all the pain of Penn State telescoped into a single few minutes. I knew I'd lost him. I'd abused him and in-
    suited him. He was a man, with a man's pride. What else could I expect? I thought, I'll walk out of this theater and I'll throw myself on the subway tracks in front of a train.
    He sat staring straight forward at the screen, but unseeingly. His hands were clenched on his thighs. "My father was dead sure you wanted me. He was always taking your side. Even when you hit me! I just about got furious at him." He sat breathing deeply, unevenly, for a few minutes. "How long have you felt this way?"
    I sat bowed and miserable. I was ready to make a total fool of myself to make him stop being angry. "Ever since you came," I said. We were still talking in hoarse whispers.
    He turned and fixed me with those terrible eyes. Now he gave me back the whiplash I'd given him in the locker room. "The things you've put me through . . . I never took from anybody what I've taken from you."
    I closed my eyes. "All I can say is, I hurt myself every time I hurt you. So we're even."
    His eyes narrowed. "What do you want from me? If you're interested in a matinee, forget it."
    I met his eyes and shook my head slowly. I let him see all the feeling that was in me, in my eyes. He saw that feeling, and was still hesitating in anguished disbelief.
    "Harlan," he said. He touched my hand, which was lying clenched on the musty armrest.
    "I'm in love with you," I said. "Do you want it on the dotted line?" I turned my hand up, clenching his so hard that I thought both our fingers were going to crack. We sat there wringing each other's fingers like a couple of uptight high-school students.
    Suddenly, he reached out with his free hand, grasped me by the shoulder. He leaned toward me, drawing me toward him, and he kissed me on the mouth, hard, but only for a few moments. Our hands untangled ourselves. He drew away just a little—I could still feel his breath on my lips. My certainty that I'd lost him was still trying to change into joy. I
    touched his cheek, slid my fingers disbelievingly into his hair. He touched my neck.
    He spoke against my lips in such a low whisper that I barely heard him. "I love you, Harlan."
    We slid our arms around each other, and he kissed me again. The frankness and strength of that kiss was devastating. He opened my lips with his own, licking them slowly. His eyes shut, he moved his lips gently back and forth between mine, and then he slipped his tongue into my mouth. We clenched each other as hard as the creaky armrest would permit, and I laved his mouth with my own tongue. His mouth was sweet and clean. We gnawed and bruised each other's lips. He loved the way