While England Sleeps by David Leavitt

and intensity of his orgasms, not to mention the books he read, every one of which was meticulously registered by title, author, publisher and both date and place of purchase or borrowing. Of course he kept his books alphabetized—such a contrast to my own, which were a chaotic jumble!)
    His clothes securely put away, Edward next went into the bathroom and set out his tooth powder, brush, comb, razor and shaving mug. Lil had sent a fruitcake with him, and this we ate with tea, after which he got up, took the tea things to the kitchen and thoroughly rinsed them, as if to demonstrate his responsibility, the extent to which, having moved in, he now took a proprietary pride in the place.
    I had fetched an old gramophone from Richmond a few days earlier. Now I put on a record. To my amazement, Edward took me in his arms, and we started dancing, two awkward, ungainly men, neither having the slightest idea how not to lead. It was dusk, sweater weather, the first gusty autumn drafts seeping in under the doorframes and window frames. Even so we stripped off our clothes, our bodies flushed with heat, our erections swatting each other, silky leg hairs softly slipping, while the voice on the gramophone bleated and Edward’s voice matched it, note for note.
    Edward kissed me. The record stopped. I bent onto my knees, I started kissing his chest, his stomach, going further down . . .What I wanted to do I knew was depraved. I should have been thinking, It will shock Edward, he’ll run screaming away . . . but his indrawn breaths, as I kissed his body, encouraged me, and then there was his cock, hard and springy as a mushroom, the tip pearled with glistening dew, just inches from my lips. God knows I felt ashamed—really, I thought, I should go and hand myself over to the sexologists right away—and so I started making my way back up his stomach, toward his mouth, but he pushed my head down again, and said, “Do it,” his voice raspy.
    “Edward, do you know—”
    “Do it.” There was need and anger in his voice. He pulled my head toward him; the tip of his cock skidded my teeth. I took it in. His cock ballooned, Edward jolted and shuddered and came without warning, suddenly flooding my mouth with his semen, warm and slightly thickened and tasting a bit like a sauce of milk and flour that has had too much salt added to it. Then he pulled back, he dropped to his knees, his chest shivering, his eyes huge and hungry, and ran his fingers through my hair and, kissing me, sucked his own sperm from my mouth, licked the spillage off my face, so that I knew there was no limit, no distance we could not go with each other.
     
    I ran into John Northrop one afternoon at the grocer’s. To my amazement, he recognized me, though whether from school or from the meeting he’d presided over, I couldn’t be sure.
    Northrop, as I recalled, was from Shropshire, and physically he was a proper Shropshire lad, right out of Housman: big, blond, hale, though the muscle that braced his huge chest and abdomen was running to fat, no doubt the result of one too many beers. Irretrievably heterosexual, too. And yet there was something both sexy and reassuring about his bearishness. You felt you could trust him to do something absolutely filthy to you without causing permanent damage.
    He suggested a pint, and I accepted. “I’ve been following your career since school,” he told me, once we were settled at the pub with our beers. “Oh, I know, you’re thinking, That Northrop, he’s probably illiterate, but the fact is I do read a novel here and there, or a short story in a magazine. And God knows your friend Nigel Dent’s become famous enough lately, not only with his piano-playing, but also those letters he writes for the newspaper. Where is he now?”
    “Utrecht.”
    “Fellows like you, with a talent for the word, I don’t have to tell you, you’re just what the Brigade needs. Those pamphlets we’re always publishing, for example. I always say