Alexander The Great 1

Alexander III, son of the conqueror Philip II of Macedonia, studied under the greatest mind of the classical world, Aristotle. He learned horsemanship on the great, black Arabian stallion Bucephalus, a gift from his devoted father. He succeeded his father at the age of twenty, quickly quelled rebellions throughout his father's dominions and went on to create the greatest empire the world had ever seen. He earned the title "the Great," but his devotion to his male lover left him without an heir when he died at the age of thirty-three. Without a doubt, Alexander the Great was one of history's most compelling figures, still fascinating some 2300 years later. But my interest in him only began when I fell in love for the first time in my life and became obsessed with the possibility that history really could repeat itself.

Alexander was one of the most beautiful people I ever met in my life. Even so, I didn't notice him at first. I was sixteen and working with my church youth group when we met. His family had recently joined the church and had been trying to get him into the group for several weeks. Unfortunately, the church was rather fundamentalist in orientation, and he, two years younger than I, wasn't sure that he wanted to be an active participant in such pious activities. Of course, the youth group was not nearly as conservative as the rest of the church -- we were wise-ass teenagers, all of us -- and he fit in easily.

I had discovered the darkness in my own soul, that is to say my sexual orientation, about three years earlier, and was only now beginning to come to terms with it in my own mind. After all, accepting eternal damnation by the edicts of your own society is not easily accomplished. And I had already learned some of the pleasures of all-male sex with friends, noting, with the consternation of the over-righteous, my distinct attractions towards other members of my church group. I did my best to keep my hands to myself, vaguely certain of my place in Hell, but more acutely afraid of exposure. Given my own fears, and my penchant for martyrdom, it seems even stranger that I didn't notice Alexander right away, but the third meeting we both attended would make up for lost time.

I was a well-established leader within the group, which basically meant that most of the younger kids came to me when there was a problem that they didn't want to take to the adults. In a strange way, I had always felt very satisfied in their trust, the way they knew that I would help without getting them in trouble and the emotional bonds that would form in this process. So, in between games of volleyball, campfire-type songs and our token religious service, I spent the time with one kid or another, just talking through stuff. I usually spent a little extra time with new kids, to help them assimilate, but Alexander had quickly gotten up to speed with the group. Consequently, he was like a shadow to me: I knew he was there, but since he didn't seem to need me, I didn't really see him.

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I remember my chagrin when I turned in response to a hand on my arm and could not remember the name of the kid who had grabbed me. "Sean," he began with a smile that would have lit most cities on the darkest of nights, "you gonna hang around long after the meeting?"

"Well, I usually wait to make sure everybody's got a ride before I leave." Why hadn't he let go of me? And how had I missed him before?

"I was just wondering -- " he stopped short, but his green eyes were dancing at me beneath long eye-lashes that fluttered up at me.

"You need a ride?" I asked, wanting to kick myself for not remembering his name.

"If you don't mind."

By this time, I was grinning back stupidly. His brown hair, shorter in front, hung in damp, sweaty clumps over and around his eyes. In those few moments, I lost track of everything going on around me as I found myself trapped in those green eyes, bound by the smile that spread from his lips. I have no idea what silly jokes I may have told after I mumbled my assent, but I know I would have said anything to keep that smile on his face, those eyes locked with mine. Gradually, his hand had moved up a few inches to my shoulder, and still he held on to me.

Someone's shout of "Alex!" caught his attention, and he pulled away from me. I felt slightly jealous at first, but realized I was just being foolish. Still, the memory of his face was burned into my mind. When he turned back to me, the spell had been broken, but its ghost lingered.

I was nervous as I took him home, and my mind played games with his name: Alex, Alexander, Alexander the Great! Conquered the known world. I would have been willing to bet that this namesake was capable of filling those sandals himself. Between my nerves, my obvious lack of concentration and glancing at him every chance I had, it's a wonder I didn't kill us both!

When I dropped him off at his house, I purposefully reached over to muss his hair just to touch him, and he smiled again -- that same smile. To be honest, I had no idea what had happened between us, had not even thought about why I had wanted to touch him or make him smile. I just knew that I felt better driving home that night than I ever had in my life.

Over the next two years, Alexander and I became inseparable. When we picked teams, when we picked tent-mates on camping trips, whenever either of us didn't have to be somewhere else, we were together. Our relationship spilled outside of the church group, and we started spending our free time at school together, visiting each other on weekends. In a real way, it was pure agony for me because I knew that I had fallen for him in a bad way. More importantly, I knew that I could never have him because of the homo-phobic environment we lived in.

I think the hardest part for me was waking up next to him. On camping trips, his sleeping bag ended up against my mine, and I remember being grateful for the thick cloth between us that cushioned my erection from him. Invariably, he would be facing me, his nose inches from me, his hand resting above my head. In those minutes before he woke up, I used to brush my lips against his, tasting his breath with my tongue. Eventually, he would wake up giggling, stretch, then settle back against me to whisper nonsense together until we had to get up. Then came the sleep-overs, which only made everything even more complicated.

Against my parents' wishes, I had forsaken pajamas years earlier. He followed suit, and soon we would be curled up under the covers wearing nothing but our briefs. Some nights I didn't get any sleep at all because his nearly naked body would slowly settle against me as he slept, and the feel of his bare skin against my own had me so horny and frustrated that sleep was impossible. What's worse, as we had grown closer, we began to think very little of our physical contact -- when we were alone, that is. If our arms wandered around each other while we slept, or we felt hardened appendages pressing against us through thin cotton briefs, we merely grinned and giggled at each other without comment. I know that we both had problems with sticky shorts from time to time.

Before long, I began to fear that he might be feeling the same way about me. It wasn't just a matter of an occasional hug; hell, I usually initiated those, although he could surprise me at the strangest times. Nor merely the bump-and-grind's when we slept together; certainly that might have happened between any two normal, horny boys, though perhaps not with the same casual disregard. It was more the way he never really needed my help, but wanted me around anyway; the way he looked at me sometimes, with those green eyes, 'lashes pointing; the way he smiled at me for no known reason and a million other things that seem so small.

For example, Alex managed to get into a fight with a couple of other guys one day when the group was on a trip to a local lake about a year after he joined us. I was incredibly pissed-off at him; I mean, the last person I expected trouble from when I was in charge was Alex. I really wanted to lay into him, but I managed to restrain myself when I confronted him about it. "What the hell were you doing?" I asked him. My voice was low so that we couldn't be overheard, but it was definitely a shouted whisper.

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