Chronicles of an Academic Predator

CHRONICLES OF AN ACADEMIC PREDATOR

Published First at : http://groups.yahoo.com/group/arbourtales/

Before you read this story, there are a few things you should consider:

1. It contains graphic descriptions of sex between men. In some cases, these depictions may get kinky, and include borderline S&M.

2. It is set in the early 1960s, an era before the Civil Rights Act of 1964 when segregation and discrimination were the norm. African Americans were referred to as Negroes or Coloreds, although the "N" word was offensive then as it is now. I have retained the language of the era because it reminds me how far we have come on race relations.

3. Be aware that the effects of inflation have been profound. A good rule of thumb is to consider that $1 in 1962 is probably similar to $10 in 2008. So just add a zero at the end of any number.

4. Some authors are good enough to create a mood through their words. I need help, so I'll be posted recommended musical selections throughout the story.

March 25, 1962

Musical Recommendation: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDtIfwGAcOE "Crying in the Rain" by The Everly Brothers

Tears rolled down my eyes, but only because I was alone. I'd just left the airport where I dropped Peter off. I hate saying goodbye to people. Yet why did his departure affect me so badly? Maybe it was because he was the only man I'd really had sex with. Maybe because he was the only person that I'd ever been able to be completely honest with, at least about my sexuality. Maybe I just craved love and affection. Whatever the reason, his departure had left me feeling hollow and empty. Add depressed and moody as well.

I'd decided last night to spring for a plane ticket. The bus would have been a lot cheaper, and this one I'd have to explain. It's not every day that I buy a plane ticket from Philadelphia to Los Angeles for someone named Peter Gordon. That wasn't really the issue, the money. I sent him on the plane because I'd grown attached to him, and I wanted to. That and I was worried he'd blow all the guys on the bus as he traveled from coast to coast. He had this disturbing way of making me jealous.

I'd given him the ticket, a new wardrobe, and $250. That should tide him over for a few months anyway. Enough to use his considerable charm to find something productive to do. I made him promise to write and gave him my address in Claremont, but I doubt he will. He doesn't seem like a writer.

The Pontiac seemed so empty and lonely without him. He'd been here, making stupid jokes, making me laugh, making me feel good. All by myself, I fell into one of my usual masochistic routines: Making myself miserable.

I took a detour to the Jersey Shore, and found a secluded beach to walk on. The weather was cold and misty, miserable in other words, just like me. I wasn't anxious to get home. I knew the change, the shock back into my life would be jarring. I tried to avoid jarring. Jarring made me lose control, something that was unacceptable. Yet I'd lost control with Peter. I'd shared my thoughts with him, I'd let him see into my soul. Was that my problem? Would I let my guard down to any guy who sucked my dick?

I chided myself for being a spoiled, ungrateful brat indulging in a useless pity party. I had the world by the balls. A great education, all the money I'd ever need, a family that loved me, good friends, and a great car. I smiled back at the parking lot where the red Pontiac seemed to gleam at me. So what if my career was in limbo? I'd land on my feet. So what if I was in love with a straight guy? There wasn't a better person in the world than Andre, and I was lucky that he was my friend. So what if Peter, the guy who popped my cherry, was gone? He was off to start a new life, and I had been the one to make it all possible.

Still, I felt unsettled. I walked up the shore, and then back, listening to the surf and feeling the wind pierce through my new coat. I ended up back at my car wet, cold, and still miserable. I started the engine and headed back to Princeton when the answer hit me. I was lonely. Not for friendship, but for love. I remembered that lonely look on Peter's face, knowing he was sharing my misery, and then I buried it deep. Loneliness was not an emotion that JP Crampton was afflicted with.

I got home and the house was empty, thankfully. That gave me time to unpack, settle in, and take a shower. There was a letter on the table from my mother, so I grabbed a beer, sat back, and opened it.

It was post-marked last Thursday. Inside were two sealed envelopes, one for me and one for Andre. My mother always sent him a note when she wrote me. I was always tempted to open them, but that was dishonorable and I knew I could never violate that kind of trust. That would be like rummaging through his room, an invasion of his privacy that I'd never do, and neither would he. Mutual respect had made us such great roommates. I sat back to read:

Dear Jean-Paul,

I cannot wait to see you next week! It has been too long, and even though you have been away at school for the past 7 years, the house still feels empty without you here.

That made me smile. I take after my mother; in fact, I'm a total "momma's boy". My mother is without question the most unique person in Claremont, probably in all of Ohio. She was born and raised in the Champagne province of France, to a family proud of its lineage but with little else to show for it. She'd met my father in the 1930s, when he was an engineer in the army and had been sent over to France to evaluate the Maginot Line. He apparently thought the Maginot Line was impenetrable, but I gather my mother was not. In any event, after a speedy courtship and wedding, my mother was transplanted to Claremont, Ohio, with only a rudimentary knowledge of English and little idea of Americans.

When I think of my mother, the two adjectives that pop into my mind are kindness and elegance. She's kind not just to me, but to everyone. Her giving personality has ingratiated her into Claremont, and she's universally loved by the townspeople. Her manners are refined, her social skills unimpeachable; it's as if she's single-handedly brought class and culture to Claremont. Even the other town "ladies" have learned to respect her, although I know they call her "Eurotrash" behind her back. We speak French at home, when my father isn't around, and in all of our letters.

It has been an interesting month. Tonto has managed to anger the entire town with the new high school, but she has so roped them in to her elaborate plan there really is no way out for them. You'll remember that she led the drive to build the new Claremont High School near the center of town? Well it's nearing completion, and it is really beautiful. The huge stadium will probably bring a whole new level of esprit to the fans. In any event, last week at the school board meeting, which she chaired, she announced that since the new school had such a large capacity, there was no reason to have two high schools in town, and successfully headed a motion to close Claremont East High. With this one stroke, she's achieved her ambition to integrate the high school. I told her "well done".

Tonto is my aunt, Gail Schluter. She got her nickname because when I was a little kid I called her "tante" in French, and she thought I was calling her Tonto. So it stuck. She's an amazing, formidable woman, always fighting for a cause. The east side of Claremont is the poor side of town, the side where all the pollution from the mill ends up drifting, and a part of town that is rigidly segregated between poor whites and coloreds. The district lines before had been drawn to keep most of the white kids in Claremont West, while most of the Negros ended up in Claremont East.

I'm worried that things will be hard for the students, but Vella tells me that Sammy has been doing fine at Claremont West. I'm not sure that is representative though, since he is a very large boy and plays on the football team. You'll be amazed at how much he's grown, and Vella tells me that he is a good student as well.

Vella is our maid, and her husband Abe is our gardener. They've been with my parents for years, and they're like my second family. Sammy is their only son, a really nice kid with a great personality. About 10 years ago when my parents moved up to the West Hills my father built a house for them on our property, so that put Sammy in the Claremont West High boundary.

Business has been good for your father, and he decided to celebrate by buying me a new car. He of course wanted me to get a Cadillac, but I just loved my last Oldsmobile and couldn't bring myself to get anything else. So when you get home you'll have to take it for a drive. It's not as fun and flashy as your car, but then, neither am I. I wish that, instead of buying me a new car he'd take a vacation. He works constantly, and Jim is just the same. I try to bring balance to his life, but it's hard competing with a successful business.

That really made me chuckle. We always bought General Motors vehicles. Always. When I told my father I wanted one of the new Ford Thunderbirds, I thought he was going to have a stroke. I waited a day and told him the Pontiac was much better, and he was happy, and bought me one. The Hendricksons always bought Ford products, while the Schluters owned Chryslers. Always. So it was easy to spot my dad in his Cadillac, or Bill Hendrickson in his Lincoln, or Barry Schluter in his Chrysler, and it was a sign of their status that they got a new one each year. Marjorie Hendrickson usually had a Lincoln that matched her husband's but in a different color, while Tonto drove a massive Crown Imperial. There was something comical about seeing this small frumpy matron hop out of that massive steel beast. My mother, on the other hand, insisted on buying Oldsmobiles. She thought Cadillacs were too pretentious, and she liked to pretend that she was above these outward displays of status. Secretly, I think she like rebelling a little bit, and she knew how uncomfortable it made the other ladies when they thought about what the townspeople said about them. The irony of it was that her 98 was almost as expensive as my father's Cadillac, but that just made it seem even classier. The ladies got new cars every other year, but NEVER took their husband's cars as "hand me downs". It just wasn't done.

Well, I must write some more letters. Drive safely and give Andre a big hug for me.

Love, Maman

March 26, 1962

We entered Claremont from the east, driving through the gritty working class neighborhood that seemed to have a perpetual layer of soot from the plant. The closer we got to downtown, the more unkempt the shotgun houses got, and now here were stores with bars on their windows, and the inevitable pawn shop. Once we got downtown, the scene changed again, signs of a bustling retail and commercial center. The same stores that I'd gone to as a child, the same restaurants, the same parks. Still the stark contrast from east to center struck me as never before. I wondered if that was because the divide was wider, or because I was just really noticing it.

Andre babbled on happily next to me, pointing at this, that, or the other thing. He had adopted Claremont as his own home town and spent the last two summers here, so he knew the town almost as well as I did.

Musical Recommendation: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTc1nshz_Sc&feature=related "The Mountain's High," by the Dick and Dee Dee

At the western edge of downtown we turned off Main Street onto Skyline, the road that would take me home. It wound up into the west hills, to the area known as Claremont Heights, where most of the wealthy people had built their homes. It is a picturesque road, lined with stately homes, big trees, and spectacular views of Claremont. It had become desirable primarily because of those views, and also because the prevalent winds tended to blow the pollution towards the east and kept the air here relatively fresh.

At the top of the hill was a simple mailbox in front of a winding road and a sign marked "Private Property." We drove down the road, past the stands of trees that hid the house from the road, past Vella and Abe's house, through open gates and into the large circle drive. We were home.

"This has got to be the most beautiful house in the world!" Andre opined as we drove up to the front. He was exaggerating as usual, but it was a nice place. It was a sprawling "ranch style" house, the architecture inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright, with a central area and two "wings." My bedroom is in the north wing, along with the two guest rooms. My parents' master bedroom is in the south wing. Both of these wings overlook a veranda and pool, the neatly manicured lawn that seems to flow right into the woods, and of course an amazing view of the town. The central section contains the study, kitchen, living room, and family room. My parents had designed and built their dream home, and it really is cool.

Andre leaped out of the car, just remembering to wait for me, as we rushed up to and through the front door. My parents were in the family room watching television. My father had bought one of those new color TVs and he thought it was the coolest thing in the world. I suspected that he really didn't enjoy TV that much, but he liked the technology. They both got up when they saw us, big smiles on their faces, as they walked over to us and greeted us warmly. For them, that was probably a little more restrained than most people. For my mother, a warm welcome was a semi-hug and a kiss on the cheek. For family, the semi-hug consisted of her putting both her hands on the other person's shoulders and pulling close to them, not to make additional body contact, but close enough for that kiss on the cheek. For others, she only put one hand on the other person's shoulder, while she used her other hand to shake theirs. The kiss on the cheek was only given to those she knew. My father, on the other hand, defined a warm welcome as a firm handshake and a pat on the back. For those he was really trying to express warm regard for, he actually put his arm around the man's shoulder while they were side by side, using his long reach and strength to pull them together slightly. Occasionally someone would commit the faux pas of trying to embrace either one of them in a bear hug. They both reacted the same way. They were both polite but did not respond, and then made a point to avoid that individual to the degree decently possible. Some things never changed.

After our "warm" greeting we sat in the living room chatting. I hadn't seen my parents since Christmas and they both looked different. My father was the caricature of the American businessman, his height and presence dominated every room that he was in. But he seemed older and more distant than ever, his mind seemingly forever focused on the next "deal". Andre had a unique ability to drag him back into our world, another reason for me to love him. My mother had a new hairstyle, taller and stiffer. She was a devotee of Jackie Kennedy and mimicked her sleek fashion style. The fitted jackets and skirts suited her slender body perfectly.

My father had surprised her last year by working his political connections to get them invited to the White House. My mother had actually been able to meet the First Lady and speak French with her, truly one of the highlights of her life. There was a large picture of the two of them, signed by the First Lady, in her study, and since their meeting she studied Mrs. Kennedy's fashion choices with diligence. In February, when the First Lady had hosted a live television tour of the White House, my mother had diligently taken note of the furnishings and colors she had chosen. My father teased her, told her that she'd become a groupie, but she took it all in stride.

After a bit I excused myself and headed to the kitchen. Vella was there, as I hoped, with genuine warm hugs. There was no physical distance with Vella; she just grabbed you, pulled you in, and wrapped her arms around you. She pelted me with questions about school and jobs, pretty much like my mother had just done. We were sitting at the kitchen table talking when Sammy came walking in, almost taking my breath away. I remembered him as this scrawny kid, shorter even than me. He'd been gone last Christmas when I'd come home, so I hadn't seen him in about 9 months. During that time he had exploded.

He was tall, at least six feet, and solid. I could almost see his muscles bulging through his shirt and pants. From little kid to ebony tower in so short a time. Wow. His face had gotten longer too, almost a little like Sammy Davis Jr., but with a classic wide, flattened Negro nose. Some coloreds had lighter skin, like coffee mixed with cream, while others had dark skin and approached a true black color. Sammy is one of the latter. He wore a white t-shirt which contrasted with his skin and made him look even more imposing.

He gave me a big hug just like his mother. I guess I had expected him to hug me; I just hadn't contemplated how different it would be now that he was all grown up. He had long, strong arms that firmly pulled me in and held me, and since he was taller my head ended up at his neck level, giving me a chance to study his muscular shoulders and the veins that stuck out of his neck when he used them. I had just said hello when I heard my mother calling me. Making polite excuses, I returned to the living room.

"JP, I want you to go into Columbus with me tomorrow. There are some people I want you to meet." My father always issued statements, not requests. He was used to being obeyed.

"So soon after he gets home? Jack, can't it wait at least one day?" This was my mother, forever fighting to keep me at home.

"I'm sorry to take him away from you so soon after he gets here, but we'll be back by dinner. It's the only time I could manage." His tone was much different when he talked to my mother.

"Who do you want me to meet?" I asked suspiciously. My parents were never huge matchmakers, but I was wary. Tonto had tried to fix me up with every girl in town, and it would be like my father to try and set me up with the Governor's daughter or something like that.

"Now son, you know that I brag about my intellectual son all the time. I want to show you off. If the Governor has time, we'll have lunch with him." Classic Jack Crampton. Issue the order, and then turn on the charm to make sure it gets executed. Resistance was futile.

"It will be good to spend some time with you Dad." If defeat was inevitable, I might as well be gracious. "What about Andre?" I turned to him, realizing that these plans left him out in the dark.

"He can go riding with me, if he wants," proffered my mother. She was an avid horsewoman.

Andre gave her a mock bow. "That sounds keen, if I can keep up."

The next morning found my father and me speeding toward Columbus at ungodly speeds. The cops all knew Jack Crampton's blue Cadillac, so we went along unmolested. I wondered what was going to happen first, us making it to Columbus or me puking. Fortunately we made it to Columbus first.

The "people" that my father wanted me to meet were mostly government types, and I put my appropriate social facade on and was as charming as I knew how to be. My father seemed pleased. He also snuck in a few people from the Department of Education, and even the Chancellor of Ohio State. By the end of the day, his motives were clear. He was trying to make sure I landed the job I had applied for at Ohio State.

I tried not to resent his interference, which probably seems hypocritical since they'd pushed and supported me throughout my life. But now, when I was ready to "launch", I wanted my success or failure to depend on me. Besides, if I got the job at Ohio State I'd be close to home, which was his goal, but I'd been away too long to smoothly re-enter the calm Claremont life. I fixed myself on the fact that he obviously loved me and wanted me around, and used that to be as appreciative as I could.

On the way home he cracked me up by telling me all the inside stories about the people we had just met. One of the Governor's key aides had a chronic drinking problem, while two of the state senators were wanton womanizers.

"Supposedly the Provost of the University is a queer," my father volunteered. "I guess you probably run into those people all the time. Academia is full of them." If only you knew, dad.

Dinner at home that night was fabulous, thanks to Vella. That woman could cook! My father was keyed up from his "successful" trip to Columbus while Andre and my mother were still flushed from their ride. I found myself relaxing around these people who I loved more than anything, truly enjoying myself, and then with typical masochism I reminded myself that the person they loved didn't exist. If they knew the truth, knew that I was a fag, this dinner would be entirely different. I probably wouldn't even be here.

March 28, 1962

Today was "visiting day", something I usually do the day after I get into town. Andre tried to get out of going, but I thought it would be rude to leave him at home all by himself again. Besides, Tonto would kill me if I didn't bring him along, and she was our first stop.

The Schluters still lived downtown; they hadn't moved up to the Heights like my parents and the Hendricksons. Their house was a monstrously huge Victorian thing, appealing to those who liked that kind of architecture. I drove through the front gates and parked in back. We entered through the kitchen, and there was Tonto, drinking her morning coffee and reading the paper.

"JP! Come over here and give me a hug! And you brought Andre. How wonderful!" Tonto had none of the reserve that my parents exhibited with hugs, even though her husband did. She hugged just like Vella.

"My you two look so handsome! Andre, if I was a few years younger I'd be chasing you around the house." He laughed at her and smiled. "I might let you catch me," he said, flirting. Christ.

I got us off the mutual admiration band wagon. "Good to see you too Tonto. My mother tells me you've been busy pissing off the whole town." I said this with an approving smile.

"So what's new? Those bigots on the school board would never have integrated the school without being forced to. They're just mad because a mere woman out-smarted them. You should see what they did to my car." And with that, Tonto led us out across the yard to the big garage. It had to be big to hold her huge Crown Imperial. There on the driver's side someone had spray painted "Negro Lover".

"Well, it didn't say Negro Lover at first, but I got some spray paint and fixed it. You should see the looks I get when I drive around town. And best of all, no one asks me to drive when we go out to lunch." Typical Tonto, loud, brash, and outspoken.

"Good for you Tonto," said Andre, in between fits of laughter. Tonto led us back into the drawing room, where we sat down to chat. I heard myself talking, exchanging info and niceties, while Andre picked up the bulk of the conversation. I was distracted by two large paintings, displayed side by side on the east wall. On the right was my cousin Billy, the first guy I'd ever blown, and after Andre, my best friend. On the left was his brother, Steven. Steven had died in the final months of World War II, killed, ironically, not far from the Maginot Line.

Tonto followed my gaze. "I just had them made; the artist did them from photos." She got up and we walked over to them. "I think he got the likenesses damn near perfect." Billy certainly did look just like himself, but I was too young to remember Steven. I'd have to take her word for it.

I inspected the picture of Billy more closely. Billy looked almost exactly like that German heartthrob that all the women had gone nuts over. What was his name? ...Hardy Kruger. That's it. The artist had gotten his strawberry blond hair down better than a color photo. Looking at him brought back childhood memories, memories like the first time we'd jacked off together, getting to explore another boy's body for the first time. I shook off the memories before my pants tented.

That evening my brother Jim and his wife Donna came over for dinner. It was great to see them both, but even more fun to see my niece and nephew. Richard is the oldest, just turned three, while Vanessa is just six months old. I always felt a little uncomfortable around little kids, but I had fun with them anyway. Andre had no such issues, and played with Richard until it was time for them to go home.

Donna filled us in on all the details with her family. Her father was all up in arms over the anti-pollution measures he was going to have to install on his plant to get the emissions down. That and how he was trying to buy some land to expand one of his buildings, but it was owned by Barry Schluter and he was driving a hard bargain. Her mother, meanwhile, was busy setting up a commission to save Claremont's historic buildings.

That night I lay in bed reflecting on what a lucky guy I was. I had a great friend, terrific family, and a wonderful home to come back to. Of course, ending my day on such a high note was not something that my masochistic tendencies would allow. I found myself wondering about Peter, whether he was safe, what he was doing, or even more disturbing, who he was doing. Then I started thinking about our last night together, how good his ass felt, and soon my memories had transmitted themselves to my right hand.

March 31, 1962

Musical Recommendation: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NSIW1QNMj4 "Party Lights" by Claudine Clark

The week had flown by, and now, on our last night in Claremont, we decided to go out on the town, such as it was. When I was young we hung out at the local malt shoppe, but after high school we migrated to Dino's Bar. It was on the west side of downtown and attracted a younger crowd; it was rare to see someone over 30 in there. So it was to Dino's that we headed.

The bar was full of people I knew. I used to worry that Andre would feel out of place here, but it never fazed him at all. He made friends easily, and in no time at all he had sidled up to Vivian Strepper, the daughter of one of the town's doctors. He'd picked well. She was usually pretty easy, or so I heard.

A large guy blocked my way purposefully and I looked up to find myself staring face to face at Fred Hayes. Fred is a bully, always has been and probably always will be. I was never one of his victims, because he was afraid of only one man: his father, Frank Hayes. Frank worked at the mill, and I was too well-connected to be messed with. Still, that didn't stop him from trying to intimidate me with his size. He figured he could do just about anything to me short of actually touching me.

"Well lookee who blew into town. What brings you back here Crampton?" The words sounded friendly, but they were said with a sneer.

"Just visiting Fred. How are things with you? Your wife and kids good?" My voice was very calm but friendly, my facade in action.

"They're good. You know we got two kids and one more on the way. So when you gonna get married and settle down, or don't you like girls?" He grinned at me, proud of his little taunt.

"I'm just waiting for the right one. I'd hate to marry someone I didn't love so I had to beat her up every night when I went home." That zing hit home, I could see his brows furrow. His father was notorious for beating the shit out of his mother. I guess bullies father bullies.

The bartender walked up and I ordered a beer and bought one for Fred. After that, we had a friendly conversation before he headed back to his table. That was the way all my interactions with Fred went. He'd start off taunting and provoking me, then I'd piss him off, then he'd act like a normal person. My brother went to school with his older brother, and apparently he was the same way. Their father sure had fucked them up.

Still, as I eyed him across the room, I couldn't help but notice how handsome he was. But for the fact that he had light brown hair, he looked like Tony Dow on steroids. I remembered how hard it had been not to stare at him in the locker room in high school. How much more handsome he would be if his posture wasn't so aggressive and he smiled, genuinely smiled more often. Instead, he leaned into people to intimidate them, and used angry looks or snide smiles, even the occasional snarl, to complete the process of proclaiming himself as THE alpha male.

My attention was refocused when more old friends came by. Time seemed to fast forward until it was 2AM, which was late by Claremont standards. Time to get home and rest up before the trip tomorrow.

I found Andre still talking to Vivian. He pulled me aside. "JP, Vivian wants to show me her new car." He winked at me. "If it's OK with you, I'm going to have her drive me home." I rolled my eyes at him and nodded. The guy was incorrigible.