Sharing

About five years ago, when I was an undergraduate, I had to visit the Humboldt University in Berlin to attend a conference on medical research. I must say that I've never been a big fan of medical conferences - my interest in research generally amounts to "if it's that good, I'll hear about it on the news..." - but for some reason I was unable to get out of going along to that one.

Only three or four other students went along to it, none of whom I knew directly, accompanied by one of our lecturers, a guy called Dr Richard Powell. I didn't know Dr Powell very well until that conference and I didn't see him much afterward, but on the second night of our stay in one of the University's student residences, we became a lot better acquainted.

I think I knew just three things about Powell, other than that he lectured us in anatomy and cardiology. First, I knew he was a demon at squash. One of my mates had accepted his offer of a game, thinking that a guy in his mid-thirties wouldn't be much competition for an undergraduate who'd played for his school, and had been quickly and effortlessly humiliated. Second, I knew he was married with a wife and two kids; daughters, I seem to remember. And third, I knew - everyone seemed to know - that a young guys of a particular type appealed to Powell and would be offered extra tuition in return for easily-imagined favours.

This last fact made Dr Powell somewhat notorious, not as an object of ridicule or disgust, but as someone whom everyone seemed to be curious about. I suppose people couldn't figure out why a married man, straight-acting in every sense of the term, would repeatedly indulge in brief, clearly primarily sexual, relationships with younger men. 

As a guy sitting next to me in one of his lectures once said to me, "He's got all those nurses just about throwing themselves at him, and yet he goes screwing around with any young lad who'll have him. What's going on there, then?"

I'd shrugged; I hadn't known. These days I know exactly what was going on there - know all too well what the attractions are - but at the time, I'd been just as clueless about it as everyone else was.

A friend of mine - a guy called Dave - once claimed that Powell had offered him some "additional attention", as he'd put it. Dave loved to tell the story about it when he got pissed. I must have heard it a dozen times.

I guess it was true, though, because, apart from being just about as straight as they come, Dave had all the appearances of being Powell's 'type'. He had short brown hair, for a start: there were no stories of guys with any other hair colour or length having liaisons with him. He had an angular, academic-looking face; Powell didn't seem to like guys who looked rough or thick. And he was slim: Powell never seemed attracted to chubby guys.

So there's a pretty good chance that Dr Powell really did, as Dave claimed, make a pass at him after an anatomy class one evening.

It seemed, though, that he was a guy who could take 'no' for an answer and maintain his integrity. After Dave's mouth had fallen open and he'd - as he put it - ran from the department leaving only a trail of diarrhoea, Powell had never made any further attempt to develop things further. He'd always been civil with Dave, and Dave's marks hadn't suffered a jot afterwards; he just seemed to gracefully accept that the younger guy wasn't interested in the two of them getting together.

I knew a few guys who hadn't been so reluctant, though. Not personally; just by reputation. Guys who fancied a quick roll in the sack with an older man who clearly had no intention of jeopardising his marriage or his daughters for their sake.

And in Berlin, I met one more.

I happened to be walking back to my room with Dr Powell during the second night of our stay at the University. There was about to be a dinner, supposedly fairly formal with a free bar afterward, and people were heading off to get dressed up. Powell was criticising the medical ideology behind some of the talks he'd heard delivered that day, and I was, as a third year medical student who had found himself way over his head pretty much since getting off the Channel ferry, making pitiful attempts at intelligent responses.

When we got outside my room, I said, "Well, I'll see you later, maybe..."

He'd smiled idly. "What's your room like? I'm quite impressed with mine..."

I unlocked the door with my key. "It's okay, I guess. I'm sharing with a guy from Czechoslovakia..."

He said, "Yeah, I've noticed that all the rooms seem to have two beds in them... it must be pretty standard here..."

I opened the door and switched on the light. The other guy hadn't returned yet.

Powell glanced into the room and said, "You get a scenic view of the car park, then..."

I noticed that someone - maybe a cleaner, maybe the Czech guy - had left the window wide open and that it had rained heavily that afternoon, soaking my bed.

I walked over to it, feeling how sodden the duvet, sheets and even the mattress were. "Oh, shit! Who'd be so stupid as to do that..."

Powell took a few steps into the room, looking seriously at my bed. "Oh dear... that's not too good..."

I glanced at my watch. It was ten to six. "Do you think anyone will still be here to sort something out?"

He shrugged. "I don't know... you could try, I guess... someone from catering might have a key to spare linen and stuff..."

I looked over at him, feeling pretty helpless. Smiling weakly, I asked him, "Do you know the German word for 'mattress'?" I thought it best not to admit that I didn't know the German for just about every other word I'd need to be able to arrange fresh bedding.

He smiled. "Look. There's a spare bed in my room... why don't you just bring your stuff through and sleep in that for tonight...?"

I guess my face betrayed my initial sense of apprehension, even though I knew that I wasn't the kind of guy he'd normally be interested in. Powell's smile quickly faded and he asked, curtly, "What's the problem?"

I blushed at his directness. "Sorry... I mean, it's very kind, but..."

His eyes were suddenly cold and distant. He stared at me for a few seconds, and for a moment I thought he was going to challenge my hesitation, but eventually he said: "In that case we can drag the mattress and stuff from my room into yours... it's just down the end of this corridor..."

I didn't know what to say. I felt like I was being childish for refusing to share with him. I mean, I'd been camping with guys I knew to be gay and had shared a room with a gay friend of mine a couple of times; what was my problem now?

I said, "Look. I just don't want to put you to any trouble... you know... I might mess your room up..."

I tried to smile but he looked irritated by my attempt to hide behind my pretence that I was refusing merely out of politeness. He shook his head. "Come on, Sebastian. I'm offering you the bed because yours is wet. No other reason. I know what you're worried about, and you're wrong..."

I blushed and looked down. "Sorry... it's just -"

He interrupted me: "Now let's drag the mattress and bedding into here. And forget about it..."

I felt ridiculous; like I was a little kid having to be given a stern talking to by an elder.

I slunk out of the room after him and followed him to his. Neither of us said anything.

When we got there, he started to gather the duvet and bedding together from it.

I said, "Look. I'd sooner stay here. If you don't mind and if there's no hard feelings... I'm sorry..."

He glared over at me, clearly deeply hurt by my treating him like a leper. He snapped, off-handedly, "I don't mind either way..."

I realised that Dr Powell must like to be seen as being one of the lads. I suppose his interest in squash must have been part of that: he likes to assert his authority on younger upstarts by thrashing them at squash from time to time. As well as the fact that sometimes he'd appear in the pub to get a round in after lectures, complaining that he can only have one because of his wife waiting at him, but enjoying the feeling of being part of a group of guys like he used to be when he was a student himself.

And I realised that the idea that another guy might not want to share a room with him, just because of something he clearly saw as a bit of a hobby, was deeply insulting to him.

I thought I ought to grasp the nettle. Apart from anything else, this guy was going to be one of my lecturers for the next couple of years.

I said, "If you want me to be honest, I thought you might want to... you know... bring someone back with you. I'm sorry but I really wasn't assuming anything else..."

He bristled at first at my own directness but then his eyes softened a little as he appreciated the reason I'd given.

He threw me a cautious smile. "It seems that my reputation among you undergrads doesn't do me much credit..."

I shrugged, smiling back. "I've probably been listening to too much tittle-tattle..."

"Well... I suppose people are going to notice things and talk. But, regardless of anything else, do you really think I'd bring someone back if I was sharing a room...?"

"I wouldn't mind if you did... it wouldn't bother me... I just wanted to... you know... give you your space..."

He said, "Well, thanks for being honest. You're very welcome to stay and sorry for getting shirty with you... I just thought you were being a little... I dunno... judgmental... and I really hate that..."

I smiled. "No worries... I didn't exactly articulate myself too well back there..."

He went on, "And if you're not bothered who I'm friendly with, the same goes for you if you meet a girl you like..."

I shook my head. "There's not much chance... I've just started dating someone..."

He nodded. "Well, go and fetch your stuff. We'd better get changed..."

To show that I really wasn't worried about sharing with him - even though, at the beginning, for some irrational reason, I had felt a little concerned by his offer - while we were getting changed I acted like I would if I was sharing with any of my mates. There was no emerging from the shower with a towel around my waist and going through the ridiculous performance of pulling on my briefs on beneath it; no, I just strolled around in the buff like Dr Powell was as familiar to me as my brother. I bent over to get stuff out of my rucksack as though I was totally unaware that I was flashing him views of me that left nothing to the imagination, and pulled on a pair of white briefs that my new girlfriend, Rachel, had said made my crotch look 'delicious'.

And Powell didn't throw me so much as a glance. He got on with shaving and then spraying himself with deodorant and stuff, at first wearing nothing and then putting on a pair of tight-fitting dark blue briefs.

I think I looked at him more than he looked at me, actually. I was a bit surprised that a guy who spends most of time lecturing or in surgery would have such a well-built, nicely toned body. I was also impressed by his hairy chest - for some reason, I've always kind of wished I had one myself - and liked the way his circumcised cock looked with its pink mushroom head permanently exposed. When he turned away from me, I found myself finding his arse quite attractive, at least as far as my limited knowledge of guys' arses went at that stage, being as firm and round as I hoped mine would be when I'm in my thirties.

As we parted company, to go down to the dinner, he said, "If you come up to bed before me, find me and I'll give you the key. I won't stray too far..."

I smiled and nodded.

And then he said, "And thanks again, Sebastian. Thanks for being honest with me..."

And I nodded sagely like I really had been.