The Night of the Dance           Earlier in the evening, the huge parlor in Madame Etoile's Boarding Establishment for Young Women had been a-whirl with gaiety: bright, swirling gowns, laughing faces, the light of a hundred candles, the newest dance tunes from New Orleans and New York—and if they weren't the newest, no one present would have known any different. Now only the pianist remained, and he rested his tired fingers with old favorites: slow and dreamy Aura Lee; the morbidly nostalgic Lilly Dale and Long, Long Ago, ever popular. All the guests but Jim and Artie had left, the town men donning overcoats and hats to return to the bosoms of their families, and the few out of town guests repairing to the hotel–or upstairs with one of the girls. With her usual frugality, Madame had put out half the candles, and the space that had so recently been a brilliantly lit ballroom had reverted to its more typical shadowed coziness.          Artie sat with Clair, neé Klaara, his favorite of Madame's girls. Claire had distinguished herself as the only one to ever successfully defy Madame's insistence on French names. "Jane and Sallie and Hattie" were common, vulgar names, she declared with a sniff, by which she meant, of course, English names. Jane became Jeannette, Sallie was transformed into Sophie, and Hattie into Hortense, and if they minded, they knew better than to say so. Klaara, however, had descended from the Ogden local at the passenger station, walked calmly through the wide streets of the upper town to the shacks surrounding Madame's establishment near the rail switching-yard, and presented herself for employment at Madame's front door, her only condition being that she would not give up her name. When it became obvious that Madame—no matter how she might long to have someone with Klaara's beauty, refinement, education and charming accent in her parlor—was adamant on the subject, Klaara retrieved her reticule and parasol and proceeded to depart. She was halfway across the porch before Madame snapped, with grudging capitulation, "Claire, then!" Claire she had agreed to, and Claire she had become.           Jim admired her voluptuous figure, her flawless skin and her wheatstraw hair, but felt, without quite knowing why, that she talked down to him. He preferred someone more . . . jolly. And he also had some obscure sense that she was a lady, in a way that the other girls weren't, that it was wrong, somehow, for him to procure the services of her body. So, lovely as she was, he had left the field clear for Artie, who seemed more on her intellectual level anyway. He didn't know whether they made love or discussed Voltaire, but there was no question that Artie enjoyed the time he spent with her.           Jim was dancing with Norah, the little Irish parlormaid, under the severe eye of Madame. L'egalité notwithstanding, twirling the servants around the dance floor would not have been countenanced in the polite society of France, but this was America, and could not by any stretch of the imagination have been called "polite," in any case. Jim had observed her wistful expression as she watched the "young ladies" dancing, and when he could, had bowed and requested the honor. The pianist had been cajoled to play "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen," and Jim was now sweeping her up and down the floor.           Most of the other girls were dancing together, some because they preferred each other, and some simply because all the men had gone. The evening was winding down, and at the end of the song, Jim deposited Norah in the doorway to the back hall, and began to think about leaving himself. The prospect of staying with one of the girls had no appeal for him tonight. He wasn't sure why that was so. Minette—recently the dark-haired Portugese Maria—had made it clear that she would welcome his company, and she was not only pretty enough to tempt any man, but skilled as well. He wanted something different tonight, though, and he didn't know what it was, and the dissatisfaction he felt was enough to send him home to sleep alone, if that was how things turned out. Artie had given him no hint of his intentions, which meant he was more likely to stay at Madame's with Claire than to share Jim's bed.           Claire turned up suddenly at his elbow. "M'sieur Jeem?" she inquired softly. "May I speak with you?"           He turned politely, but with a rejection at the ready if she was about to proposition him. Fucking Claire felt somehow as wrong as sleeping with his sister, if he'd had one. She laid her hand on his arm and he was on the verge of saying, "Thank you, no . . . " when to his amazement, she inclined her head toward where Artie was chatting with Madame and whispered, "I think M'sieur Artie would like to dance with you."           Jim's jaw dropped. "With me?"           "He will not ask you," she said. "But he watches you with the other girls." She gave what was a very Gallic shrug, considering her allegedly Scandinavian origins. "We know he cares for you."           "You don't mind that?" Jim asked her, surprised at her candor.           "Some do," she said frankly. "But one learns, in a place like this, that pleasure comes in many ways. And love—" She gave him an enigmatic smile."Ah, love—that is never to be disdained."           He wanted to ask what she was doing here, had wanted to ask more than once, and he wanted to know what she meant by that last remark. Love was not something he and Artie spoke of, and dancing with each other was not something they could do anywhere. He considered it, though, in light of the risk they might run. Madame was already irritated with their relationship, so she could hardly be any further offended. Madame was no prude, but men who slept with other men, even if not exclusively, robbed her of a paying customer, and when the men were Jim and Artie, she lost not one customer but two. She was in a good mood tonight, however, and had been further softened by the deliberate attention Jim had paid to her.           If the other girls already knew of his and Artie's feelings for each other, there remained only the pianist to consider. He eyed the man, dressed in skin tight trousers and an extravagantly cut evening jacket over an expanse of ruffles that even the girls would have thought excessive, and decided the most he had to worry about from that quarter was jealousy. To dance with Artie . .. . he hadn't even been tempted, so impossible had it seemed, but suddenly he wanted to, very badly.           He loved to dance with women, to hold them close and feel their breasts move against him under the tight bodices. Any further intimacy was impeded by their full skirts, however. To dance with a man in trousers, to feel his legs against your own . . . he was almost breathless at the thought. He was a leg man, in any case, and Artie's muscular thighs were on the verge of being a fetish for him.           He turned back to Claire, with the vague discontent he'd felt all evening dropping away. "I'll do it!" he whispered back, with a smile. "I'll ask him. Thank you!"           Artie had left Madame and was dancing half-heartedly with Yvette, whose red hair and freckles suggested a birthname more like Bridget. She was nearly as tall as Artie and pretty enough, but gawky, and inclined to be spiteful to the other girls. Jim suspected she had asked Artie to dance, not the other way around, and felt no qualms about taking Artie away from her.           "Ask Herman to play Over the Hills and Far Away, would you?" he said to Claire, and set out across the carpet before he could change his mind.           Yvette's back was toward him, and before Artie could twirl her around again, he tapped her on the shoulder. She jerked around with a surprise that changed to pleasure when she saw Jim standing there. It was obvious that she thought Jim meant to dance with her. The expression on her face when Jim held out his hand to Artie brought more than one snicker from the opposite end of the room. For an instant, Jim thought she might create a scene, but she tossed her head and stamped away, leaving him and Artie staring at each other, Artie with hardly less surprise than Yvette had shown.           "May I have the honor of this dance?" Jim asked softly, and Artie's face dissolved into the happiest smile he'd seen in a long time. Such a little thing, he thought, to give such pleasure—be damned to anyone who thought ill of it. For Artie's smile, he'd do more than ask for a dance.           It wasn't quite clear to him how two men were supposed to fit together, and they pawed ineffectively at each other for a moment. But then Artie took his shoulders in both hands, and his hands landed at Artie's waist, and they came together as naturally in the dance as in everything else. And it was just as he'd thought it would be. Everywhere they touched was a fresh new piece of skin, roaring with sensation. He felt Artie tremble and knew it was the same for him. Artie's organ rose to meet his between their close-pressed bodies and he had to bite his lip and remind himself where they were to keep from clutching Artie's ass in his hands.           He'd requested Over the Hills mostly because it was a pretty melody with enough rhythm to be suited for dancing, but the words brought a tinge of pink to his face when he recalled them. When on my charmer's breast repos'd. I would love you all the day. Ev'ry night would kiss and play, If with me you'd fondly stray Over the hills and far away. Over the hills and far away           Artie wasn't helping, humming the melody in his ear and breaking out into words at "Ev'ry night would kiss and play . . . " with a wicked grin.           They weren't the only ones dancing, for which he was grateful. He didn't mind a bit of staring—he'd expected that, but at the same time he didn't want them to be on display for the others to titter at. Yvette and Hortense swept by them, glaring sulkily, and even Madame had been persuaded to take a turn on Claire's arm.           The womens' skirts brushed his legs and their perfume scented the air, but his senses increasingly focused just on Artie. Artie had been wearing a lime-and-ginger cologne that Jim particularly liked, but it had mostly worn off in the heat of the evening, and it was his own scent that filled Jim's nostrils now—a warm aroma of skin and male musk, with perhaps the faintest tinge of leather. It reminded him of times when they had danced in a more intimate way even than this, and drew him irresistibly closer. He let his eyes fall shut and nestled his face into Artie's neck and gave himself over to the sway and flow of their bodies. His hands had crept around to the small of Artie's back, and although Artie dictated the movements of their feet, it was he who molded their pelvises together, easing back when Artie twirled them around, and pressing hard against Artie again when he could.           Artie laughed raggedly in his ear. "I heard a preacher say once," he whispered, "that dancing was a vertical position for a horizontal activity. I think he had the right of it."           Jim rubbed his erection across Artie's and was rewarded with a thin breathless moan. "I will not bid adieu to Madame with a wet spot on my front!" Artie protested, but he didn't pull away.           "You can hold your gloves across your front, and I'll stand behind you," Jim chuckled. He had disdained gloves when they dressed earlier, ostensibly because he didn't like them, but the truth was that he had again lost one of the pair.           "Right," Artie said with irony, beginning to ease away from him. Hermann was winding down, but then, to their surprise, he swung without pausing into another tune. Jim tightened his arms around Artie's back.           "Oh, no, you don't," he whispered, with a grin. "It's taken me years to get you where I've got you now, and I'm not letting you go this quick."           He tilted his head and daringly kissed the corner of Artie's mouth, winning an indrawn breath and a soft sound like a whimper from Artie. "I'm likely to make a fool of myself, James, if you keep that up."           Jim was about to reply with something vulgar about what Artie could keep up, when they both recognized the melody Herman was playing. Claire's clear contralto rang out Early one morning, Just as the sun was rising, I heard a maid sing in the valley below. O don't deceive me, O never leave me, How could you treat a poor maiden so?           She was smiling at them, but next to her, Madame gave them a triumphant scowl, and the assemblage of girls around the piano covered their grins with their fans. Thus sang the poor maiden, Her sorrows bewailing, Thus sang the poor maid in the valley below. O don't deceive me, O never leave me, How could you treat a poor maiden so?           Herman modulated into a minor key and repeated the refrain, and Artie rumbled with laughter. "Even the piano player doth protest." He drew back a little and looked at Jim with some of the angelic smile he'd had earlier. "They all want what I've got."           "Or what I've got," Jim whispered back, holding him tightly.           The girls had gotten over laughing at them, and Herman began to play something dark and romantic, not a tune that Jim recognized. Dancers drifted around them again, and they retreated into a corner, not really dancing much any more, just swaying to the music. They kissed again, tiny sucking kisses at the corner of their mouths, daring each other to take more and more, and then turning away again before their lips could fully meet. It was the most erotic scenario Jim could imagine, virtually making love to each other in public.           The room was even darker now, as Madame blew out one candle after another. The piano murmured the closing chords of the song, and Artie steered Jim into the back hall where only the fairy light by the outside door gave any illumination. He seized Jim's face and kissed him so hard their teeth clicked together. His tongue came deep into Jim's mouth and his cock stabbed against Jim's groin. "Suck me!" he commanded raggedly, when they parted. "Do it!"           "Not here," Jim said hurriedly, thinking of Norah. She couldn't be under any illusions about what went on here, but she was hardly more than a child. Knowing what took place in a whorehouse, and walking in on two people in the very act, were not the same thing. He pushed Artie toward the back door. "Outside."           They stumbled down the back steps and into the shrubbery along the fence. Overhead, the moon sailed through black streamers of clouds, clearly outlining their figures at one point and casting them into complete darkness in the next. Artie backed up to the rough fence, his hands clutching the boards, his lips drawn back in silent importunity, his breath coming in hoarse uneven gasps.           Jim thought sometimes that Artie held back with him, that no matter how intense their love-making, it was a practiced art for him. Only occasionally did he allow need to overtake desire, but at this moment, he was the picture of desperate extremity. He said nothing more, letting his posture and expression beg in place of words.           Jim stood back from him for a moment, and then began to handle himself, making Artie watch. He unbuttoned his trousers slowly and let his rigid cock poke out into the pale moonlight. Wetting his fingers in his mouth, he slid his hand around his cock and milked it, the moisture slurping along its length. Artie made a guttural helpless sound.           As the dark closed around them again, he took a quick step forward and had the front of Artie's trousers in his hand in a second. One of Artie's buttons flew off; the others yielded to his frantic fingers and his hand closed around the base of Artie's cock.           "Not yet!" he whispered intensely, knowing that the first touch of his mouth would be enough to end it all. He went to one knee, careless of Madame's pansies and the damage to his evening suit, and buried his face in Artie's groin, rubbing his cheek along the length of Artie's cock. Artie's hands came up to clutch his head but he grabbed them and flung them away.           "Don't!"           He laid one hand flat against Artie's stomach for balance, and held himself with the other one, and began to stroke his cock as the moonlight revealed them again. Artie whimpered and pressed forward until the head of his cock just reached Jim's half open lips. The slit pulsed with moisture; Jim touched it almost daintily with the tip of his tongue, and the whole organ swelled and leapt against his mouth.           He took it in and swirled his tongue around and around the flushed head as he pumped himself, feeling the orgasm beginning to unwind from his center. Artie sobbed once but didn't try to force himself further into Jim's mouth, and Jim took pity on them both and sucked him in as deep as he could take the thick column. He climaxed instantly himself, coming in shockingly intense spurts, while Artie pulsed heavily in his mouth, crying out in a series of soft oh's that caught on each other and rose again, over and over.           He held Artie until the spasms abated and Artie's cock began to soften. Artie's fingers stroked through his hair, and ghosted over his face, tracing along his eyebrows. He could feel the muscles of Artie's thighs quivering under his cheek. He wished for a crazy moment that they could just sink down into the soft warm garden soil and stay there with the crickets and the frogs, but if they weren't to be caught by someone they would have to remove themselves fairly soon. The clouds had passed and dazzling moonlight revealed every corner of the yard, from the kitchen garden to the privy in the far corner. He took a deep breath and released Artie finally, and managed to get unsteadily to his feet.           Artie looked down at the clumps of trampled flowers and the mud on Jim's trousers, and at their general state of deshabille, and shook his head with an expression in which all the affection of their years together blazed out. Then it changed to a rakish smile and he bowed and brought one of Jim's hands to his lips. "My dear, you dance divinely," he said.