Posted June 16, 2012


A Naptown Tales Sequel by Altimexis

Chapter 7 - Olympic Gold - Will Kramer

“Hey honey, I think you’d better see this,” my husband Brian said as he entered our bedroom and picked up the remote control off the nightstand. A press of the button and the holovision came to life, projecting an image over the dresser. I sat bolt upright in bed when I saw the headline at the top of the image, ‘Solomon and Richards Assassinated’.

“SHIT!” I practically shouted, trying to listen to what the news anchor was saying. It quickly became evident that she was already well into the story and that I’d need to use another source or wait for the next broadcast if I wanted details.

Reaching over to the nightstand and opening the middle drawer, I pulled out my tablet and quickly loaded the Washington Post website. I stared in disbelief at the front-page photo, showing the carnage in front of the Prime Minister’s Jerusalem home. I was still in shock from David’s assassination a couple days before, and then there were the suicide bombings in Israel, and now this.

The entire Washington D.C. metro area was in lockdown because of the possible terrorist threat and this latest turn of events would only serve to heighten concerns. I was a full professor at Georgetown University Law School, but classes had been canceled since David’s assassination and it was anyone’s guess as to when they’d reopen. Not that I didn’t have plenty I could do from home. I was currently in the middle of writing three articles for different law review journals, I had a ‘pile’ of electronic manuscripts waiting for me in my role as the senior editor of the Georgetown Law Journal, and there was a shitload of work related to my role as the director of Georgetown Law’s Supreme Court Institute.

Brian for his part was the Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, one of the youngest secretaries in the institution’s history. All of the nineteen Smithsonian museums had been closed since David’s assassination but there was still fieldwork in progress and acquisitions that were making their way through complex negotiations and these activities didn’t cease for anything. The animals at the National Zoo still needed to be fed, the nine research centers had projects that couldn’t be interrupted and several large collections were in transit to exhibitions elsewhere.

Above all else, however, the Smithsonian was a business. Yes, it was a part of the U.S. Government, but it was also a nonprofit commercial enterprise with its own charter and a staff of thousands. Brian had responsibility for all of it. Not only that, but he was the consummate politician, hobnobbing with members of Congress to make sure that the Institution’s budget kept pace with its growth. He also had to go out into the community and he had to meet with some of the most important movers and shakers in the world. Seeking out donations, particularly of important acquisitions, took up more of his time than anything else he did.

I couldn’t help but smile when I thought about how much Brian had changed since we first met, when we were both undergraduates at the University of Chicago. Back then, Brian was incredibly shy and reserved. He was almost frightened by people of wealth and importance and unsure of how he would one day deal with the give and take of the international art scene - especially the less savory aspects of it. Now Brian was wheeling and dealing with some of the most important people in the world but, nevertheless, he remained a man of integrity.

“What are you smiling about, Will?” Brian asked, obviously wondering why I’d smile at the news of assassinations in the Middle East.

I answered, “I was just thinking about you,” which earned me a quick peck on the lips.

“The boys’ll probably start waking up soon,” Brian noted. “I’ll get started on breakfast.”

“Would you like me to help?” I asked.

“Nah, I’ve got it covered,” Brian answered, and then he added, “and besides, you stink! You smell from last night and we don’t need our boys knowing we made love because one of their dads smells of sex. I showered last night but you became practically comatose right after. I guess you must be getting old,” he added as he ducked out the door, barely missing being hit in the head by the slipper I threw at him. Old, my ass - we were the same age!

Actually, Brian was right. I could smell a distinct mixture of scents, consisting of under-arm sweat, musk and dried cum.

As hot water cascaded over my torso, I wondered to myself how the recent events would affect our boys. Following the example of our friends Randy and Altaf, we made caring for rejected gay youth a part of our wedding vows. Unlike with our friends, however, money for us was never an issue and so we were able to adopt all our boys. I had a nine-figure trust fund given to me by my parents when I was a kid, and I ultimately stood to inherit the majority stock in a family-run corporation worth billions. Brian and I and our kids would never want for anything.

Over the course of our thirty-three years of marriage, Brian and I had adopted twenty-three boys, all of them gay, who were rejected by their families because they were gay. Raising teenagers can be a challenge, but who better to help them through the agony of adolescence than a couple who understood first-hand the added problems faced by gay youth? We waited until we were more-or-less established in our careers before we adopted our first kid, when we were both thirty-two, but then we never turned away a boy in need. Yes, all of our kids were boys as it turned out, not that we set out to make it that way. I knew that Randy and Altaf were currently fostering a girl, but it seemed that lesbian kids were only rarely kicked out of their homes.

We currently had eight teens in the house ranging in age from thirteen to eighteen. We also had two adult sons who were still living with us while attending Georgetown. Our other thirteen sons had all graduated high school, left home and attended college. Two went on to medical school, three to law school, one to veterinary school, and two had earned Ph.D.’s, one of them in Physics and the other in American History. Two of our sons attended the Naval Academy in Annapolis, one of whom was now stationed in San Diego and the other was on a ship in the Arabian Sea. In addition to our two at Georgetown, we had three other sons currently in school out of the area.

We lived in a large, stately house on R Street Northwest, right by the lovely Dumbarton Oaks Museum and Gardens in the prestigious Georgetown neighborhood of the District, as Washingtonians referred to it. We loved our house, even though it was a bit much to keep up, but with a housekeeper and ten teenage boys and young adults to take care of it, everything seemed to get done.

As I turned off the shower and grabbed my bath towel, the smell of frying bacon wafting up from the kitchen reached my nostrils. I was salivating before I even finished drying myself. Throwing on a pair of boxers and shorts, I ran down the stairs to find that most of our boys were already down there. Nothing can rouse a teenage boy out of bed more quickly than the smell of bacon.

All our sons were dressed in nothing more than the skimpy, brightly colored bikini briefs that seemed to be popular. Even my Brian was wearing a pair of red briefs with light blue trim. He looked so sexy in them - I was glad I was wearing shorts over my boxers, so our kids wouldn’t easily see the evidence of just how much I enjoyed seeing my husband in his underwear.

Brian was manning the stove, frying bacon and sausage links and making batch after batch of scrambled eggs on a large griddle. Our housekeeper, Daryl, was busy making and serving coffee, tea and orange juice. Daryl was a young gay man that we found in a homeless shelter a couple years back. Thrown out of his house at the age of sixteen, he’d spent the next two years on the street, prostituting himself for survival.

Fortunately he never succumbed to the scourge of drugs as do most teens in that situation and so he was able to minimize the need to sell his body. Daryl was lucky - he was befriended by a pimp who really cared. He was able to maintain a healthy diet, keep up his strength and defend himself against his johns, the other street people and the elements. He was also meticulous about always using condoms and managed to avoid acquiring any sexually transmitted diseases, including HIV.

We found Daryl at a particularly low point in his life. Evicted on Christmas Day from the boarding house where he was staying because his roommate was using drugs - a roommate who stole what little cash and clothing Daryl had, Daryl ended up volunteering at a nearby homeless shelter, helping to serve Christmas dinner even as he himself had just become homeless yet again.

We had brought our sons with us to the shelter that day to help serve dinner too, and were so impressed by the tenacity and spirit of the teen that we offered to take him in on the spot. Daryl wasn’t going to have anything to do with ‘charity’, however, and we ended up agreeing to hire him as our housekeeper in return for room and board, and a small stipend. He turned out to be a very hard-working, conscientious young man and he kept the whole house spotless. However, we did insist that he pursue his GED, which he managed to complete in just two years while working for us.

After he had his GED, we assumed Daryl would either go on to college with a little assistance from us, or look for a job. Instead he informed us that for the time being, he wasn’t going anywhere. He told us we were the best thing that had ever happened to him and, what’s more, he loved us and all his ‘brothers’ as much as we loved him. What we thought would be a tearful goodbye instead ended up being a tearful group hug. We knew that someday we would likely lose him to a boyfriend and, when the time came, we would be happy for him.

One great thing about having a guy for a housekeeper was that we could all parade around in our underwear. I was a bit too uptight to do so myself but everyone else seemed comfortable in their colorful bikini briefs. Of course with so many gay teens around, occasionally things would ‘pop up’, as was to be expected, but we all took it in stride.

Brian and I expected that the innocent horseplay we witnessed around the house probably became more serious behind closed doors. We had a house filled with horny gay teens, after all. We knew of five couples that had arisen from our household over the years, two of which were still going strong and one of which had recently begun. With each new arrival, we made it clear that we accepted that relationships might arise between boys in our household. The only things we insisted upon were that sex be fully consensual and that safer sex practices be followed. We emphasized that no one need ever feel compelled to have sex. Sexual coercion was the one reason we would have considered removing one of our boys from the household, however, and fortunately, we had yet had no need to do so.

The youngest and newest member of our household, a red-headed, freckle-faced thirteen-year-old named Greg, sat next to me and asked, “Will, is it true that President Reynolds was the ring bearer at your wedding?”

Chuckling, I replied, “We did it as kind of a joke. Jeremy Kimball was my best man…”

“Really, he was?” Greg asked.

“I guess you’re the only one who hasn’t heard the story yet.” I began. “Anyway, Jeremy was my best man, Kurt DeWitt, the President’s Chief of Staff, co-officiated with our minister, and Trevor Austin, the President’s National Security Advisor, sang at our wedding. Trevor has an amazing singing voice, and he’s a mean guitar player, too! You have to keep in mind that David, Jeremy and Kurt were only sixteen at the time and Trevor was seventeen. Even at sixteen, however, David Reynolds was nearly as tall as he is… or was… today.

“The four of them were my best friends in the world. Actually, they still are, next to Brian, of course. Anyway, I wanted to find a meaningful way for David Reynolds to be a part of the ceremony and, since there were no little kids in the family, Brian and I decided to make David the ring bearer. He brought the rings to us on a huge pillow as he towered over the rest of us. It was hilarious.

“That is so cool that you knew the President back when he was a kid,” Greg continued, and then he got a more serious look on his face and added. “Rob Singleton at school said that President Reynolds was gonna make you the next Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, but what’s gonna happen now that he’s dead?”

That really was a good question. I hadn’t thought much about it, but David always said I’d be his first appointment to the Supreme Court. With Chief Justice Roberts being as old and infirm as he was, it seemed quite likely that he would retire in the very near future but, with Schroeder in office, the chances of my being appointed his successor were virtually nil.

“Well, sport,” I began my explanation, “being appointed to the bench is always a matter of the luck of the draw. Some of the most outstanding legal minds were never appointed, just because the wrong party was in power. I would have loved to have been a Supreme Court justice, but at least for now it’s not to be. There’s an election coming up, however, and if the Democrats retake the White House, I might still be appointed… just not as Chief Justice.”

“You’d be an awesome Chief Justice, Will,” one of our other boys, Dale, said. “Maybe Roberts will hold out until after the election.”

“I’m afraid that’s not too likely,” I replied. “If anything, Roberts is likely to take advantage of Schroeder being in office to retire now and ensure that another conservative is appointed to the bench.”

“Maybe Jeremy Kimball will be the next president,” Dale said hopefully. “He’d be a great choice, and you know he’d appoint you the first chance he got.”

“I have to agree that Jeremy would be an outstanding president,” Brian chimed in, “but the DNC will likely choose someone a bit more seasoned.”

“But why not Jeremy?” Dale challenged. “He’s been in Congress ever since I can remember and, as David Reynolds' husband, he has national visibility.”

“You just like him ’cause he’s gay,” Ron, one of our other boys, entered the fray.

“First of all, ‘ever since you can remember’ isn’t all that long in the political arena,” I pointed out, “and secondly, although David opened the door to gays in the Oval Office, it’s not clear Americans are ready to elect another gay president so soon after the first one. Now that the novelty’s worn off, they may prefer to wait a while.

“Still, I have to agree that Jeremy Kimball would be the best person to carry on David’s legacy, and he’s more than qualified to be President.”

“If he won, he’d be the first Olympic medalist in the White House, wouldn’t he?” Dale asked.

“Don’t hold me to it, but I think you’re right about that,” I replied. I couldn’t help but think back to the summer of 2012 when Jeremy Kimball won Olympic gold…


Friday, July 27, 2012
Thirty-one years earlier

Brian and I walked down the jetway at Heathrow Airport after taking an overnight flight from Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. Although we’d flown First Class, neither of us slept well and we were exhausted. It was not the best way to start out our summer vacation.

When Jeremy made the U.S. Olympic Team during the trials in the summer of 2011, albeit by the skin of his teeth, we immediately started making plans to attend. How could we not be there to cheer on one of our closest and dearest friends? Unfortunately, even though it was a year in advance, many of the most popular events were already sold out and housing in the area was scarce. I had to resort to using my family’s political connections to make sure we got tickets to all of the events in which Jeremy was competing. I also made sure we got tickets for the opening and closing ceremonies, as well as the main basketball, soccer, or football as they call it, and track events.

We were very fortunate to be able to rent a room from an older couple in their townhouse in Aldersbrook, about four miles from Olympic Park, which was located in Stratford, just outside of London proper. Although the Templetons’ home was less than a mile from the rail station, which was on the same line as the Stratford International Rail Station that served Olympic Park, we decided to rent a car anyway so we’d have more flexibility. We’d probably still take the train to the Olympics but we didn’t want to be tied down by rail schedules.

Making our way through International Arrivals and Customs, we found our way to the rental counters, where we’d hoped to claim the Land Rover we’d reserved. We waited in an interminably long line, or queue as the Brits call it, only to be told when we got to the front of it that our Land Rover had been given to someone else. There were no Land Rovers, or Range Rovers, or any other types of SUV’s left for hire at all. In fact there was not a single luxury vehicle left to be had.

Needless to say, I just about blew my stack. “After all the business my parents’ corporation does with your company, how could you give our rental away?” I practically shouted.

The clerk calmly informed me that rental car agencies overbook reservations, just as the airlines do and, although we were guaranteed a vehicle, there was no guarantee that we’d get the vehicle we wanted. I argued ’til I was blue in the face but, with a rapidly growing line of irate customers behind us who seemed to be ready to lynch us on the spot, I backed down and simply threatened to take my business elsewhere. That was when the clerk gave us the bottom line - if we left the queue, we’d lose the reservation for the car he had for us, and all the other rental agencies were booked solid, too.

“I can’t believe this is all they had!” I exclaimed as Brian and I stowed our luggage in the little car they gave us. Rather than a Land Rover, we ended up with a tiny two-door Fiat hatchback. Even with the rear seats folded down, our luggage barely fit inside. The car was what I would refer to as ‘puke green’ in color. Actually it was a bright yellowish green that I couldn’t possibly conceive of being a color anyone would want in a car, but we ended up seeing several like it on the road.

“Why don’t I drive?” I asked as I opened the left-side door and plopped down inside, only to notice that the steering wheel was located on the other side of the car. Brian laughed as I extracted myself from the miniscule seat that barely fit my frame and walked around to the other side of the car. “You think this is funny?” I countered, which only made him laugh harder.

When I sat down behind the wheel, I noticed immediately that there was a gearshift to the left of me and there were three pedals on the floor. The car had a standard transmission - something I had used only a handful of times in my life, and never in a right-hand-drive vehicle.

Although the layout appeared to be a mirror image of what one would find in an American car, the gearshift clearly was not. First gear was still up and to the left, and sixth gear down and to the right. Looking down at the pedals, the only thing I knew for sure was that the brake pedal was in the middle, but was the clutch on the left or the right? After a little experimenting, I quickly determined that, as with American cars, the clutch was on the left. Shifting with my left hand would definitely take some getting used to, but probably not as much as driving on the left side of the road! I’d been to London and the U.K. many times before, but this would be my first time driving here myself.

I stalled the car several times trying to get out of the airport, but eventually got the hang of shifting gears and operating the clutch. I even started to get comfortable with driving on the left side, but what really drove me crazy were all the traffic circles, or roundabouts as they call them. They were everywhere! The Brits couldn’t seem to have two roads cross without using a traffic circle to mitigate the right of way. Hadn’t they ever heard of stop signs or traffic lights? Even their highway interchanges tended to use elevated roundabouts in place of the cloverleaf design commonly used in the U.S.

We were forever slowing down, watching for traffic from the right, easing into the circle, driving around and sometimes missing our exit, forcing us to drive all the way around again. As exhausted as we were, I soon started to feel a bit dizzy.

Another thing that surprised me was that the signs were all in miles as they are in the U.S., and not kilometers, as they are in Canada. I wasn’t expecting that.

Traffic was very heavy and because Heathrow is on the exact opposite side of London from Stratford, it took us more than two hours to reach our destination. When we arrived, we had a bit of hilarity with the Templetons, who appeared to be in their seventies. When we knocked on their door, they seemed genuinely happy to see us and seemed to be a very nice older couple. As they opened the door, I said, “Hello, I’m Will Kramer and this is Brian Philips. I believe you’re expecting us.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Templeton responded. “When you wrote that you’d be traveling with your husband, I assumed that Will was short for Wilhelmina and I thought you were a married couple. Obviously I must have misread your letter. I’m afraid you’re going to have to share a bed. I hope that’s not a problem for you two, but we didn’t anticipate having two men and we’re not really set up for it.”

“Actually, you didn’t misread my letter,” Brian explained. “Will and I are indeed legally married, and he is my husband. We always sleep in the same bed. We’re gay.”

“Ohhhh…” both Templetons said at the same time, and then Mrs. Templeton started blabbering, “I’ve never known anyone who’s gay before, but you’re welcome to stay with us. I think it’s wonderful that gay people can get married and adopt children and live just like a husband and wife can. There are so many talented gay people, like Elton John and there’s that woman in the States, Ellen Degenerate, or something like that. It’s wonderful that so many gay people are going ‘out’ and living normal lives and contributing to society…” And on and on she went - her verbal stumbling was embarrassing.

Although our room only had a standard double bed, it was actually a very nice and large room taking up most of what the Templeton’s referred to as the second floor, which was actually the attic. We had our own bathroom up there, too, so it really was like having our own suite. The bathroom had what looked to be an original claw foot tub. Because of the slanted roofline, there was no room for a shower and no way to stand upright in the tub, and so we obviously had to take baths instead of showers.

For a large room, closet space was very limited and so we were forced to live out of our suitcases. Still, the room was bright and airy, and overlooked a charming garden out back. The Templetons let us use their broadband, too. All in all it served our needs very well.

After getting settled in, we decided to take a short nap. The next thing we knew, there was a knocking sound at the door and it was getting dark outside. Throwing on a pair of jeans, I opened the door to find Mrs. Templeton outside.

“Oh dear,” she said as she stared at my chest, and then she finally looked up at me and said, “I know we only agreed to provide your breakfasts, but it’s getting late and you boys are probably too tired to go out for tea. Perhaps you’d like to eat with us?” she asked.

I gazed back at Brian, who looked adorable as he sat up in bed with his mussed up hair. Brian smiled and nodded at me, and so I turned back to Mrs. Templeton and told her we’d be delighted. She served us what she called a ‘simple' meal, but it was a feast with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and something called, of all things, spotted dick for dessert. After dinner, I called David on my iPhone and made arrangements for us to rendezvous in the morning and spend the day together, and then attend the Opening Ceremony later in the day.

Dragging ourselves out of bed in the morning, the Templetons served us a traditional English breakfast, consisting of eggs, fried potatoes, sausages, bacon and toast. If we ate like this every morning, Brian and I would have coronaries before we returned home.

Brian and I drove over to the guesthouse where David’s and Jeremy’s families were staying. The ’rents planned to spend the day shopping and Jeremy was at Olympic Park practicing and preparing himself for the competition, which left David, Brad, Trevor, Kurt, Sam and Paul to spend the day with us. I’d only met the younger boys at the older boys’ double wedding and at Cliff Kimball’s funeral, and was impressed with how much older and more mature they all seemed. At sixteen, Brad Reynolds was even taller than his brother, whom I knew to be six-foot, five-inches tall. It wasn’t by much, but it was noticeable. Sam Austin had likewise surpassed his older adoptive brother in height, looking to be around six-foot, one, an inch taller than Trevor. Kurt was now around my height, at five-foot, ten. Poor Paul remained fairly short at what I guessed to be around five-foot, six inches tall.

It was then that I noticed David leaning against an SUV, and I said, “Shit, you got our Land Rover!” Actually it was a Range Rover. I then explained the debacle at the rental counter and David tried to reassure us that, if nothing else, our rental car was a lot greener than theirs. He then burst out laughing and it finally dawned on me that he meant it literally as well as figuratively.

“Seriously,” David continued, “we all arrived last week. It made all the difference in the world. Ordinarily I’d rent a car like yours since I’m a staunch environmentalist but, with so many of us, we needed a bigger car.” Needless to say, we ended up taking the Range Rover for the day rather than the Fiat.

We decided to go into town - the town being Stratford, not London - but parking was abysmal and we could do little more than drive around in traffic looking at all the cute shops and restaurants. In the end we decided to go back to the guesthouse, park the car and set out on foot. The guesthouse was only about two miles from the town center, which was probably closer than we were gonna find parking in any case.

Along the way, we ran into David’s, Jeremy’s and Trevor’s parents and Kurt’s mom and ended up having a late lunch, or perhaps it was an early dinner. We all then walked to the Olympic Stadium for the Opening Ceremony. Now I’ve watched the opening ceremonies for the Summer Olympics on TV every four years since I was a little kid, but nothing could have prepared me for the shear size of the extravaganza. Watching the Olympic Torch make the final leg in its journey and being used to light the flame for the London Summer Olympics was particularly moving.

All of the swimming events took place in the Aquatics Center, a brand new, ultra-modern, state-of-the-art facility, and they were scheduled from Saturday, July 28 though Sunday, August 12. Actually, the timing of the 2012 Summer Olympics was very controversial because it fell in its entirety during the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, which was early this year. Noting that devout athletes would be fasting during the day, putting them at a distinct disadvantage, the Islamic community lobbied the International Olympics Committee heavily to try and change the dates but, once set, it would have literally taken an act of God to force a change.

Jeremy was competing in fourteen events in all, ranging from the fifty meter backstroke to the 1500 meter freestyle. He was also competing in a couple of medleys, which were combination relay-type team events. I wasn’t sure we’d have a chance to say hi to Jeremy at all, as he was staying with the U.S. Swim Team at the Olympic Village but, as his husband, David had passes that allowed us to visit him.

It still took a little getting used to seeing Jeremy with short hair. I knew that David had absolutely loved Jeremy’s long golden hair, but I had to admit that Jeremy looked great with short hair, too. If anything the shorter style highlighted his ruggedly handsome facial features, making him even more attractive than he was before. No doubt about it - David and Jeremy were the best-looking couple I’d ever met.

In his first event, the fifty-meter backstroke, Jeremy didn’t even place in the first bout and I feared that was going to set the stage for the rest of the competitions. This was his first Olympics, however, and at nineteen he was still young enough to be competitive in the Olympics in 2016 and 2020, and possibly even 2024.

Jeremy was an excellent endurance swimmer and he was much better at the butterfly and particularly the breaststroke. When it came time for the 1500-meter breaststroke, Jeremy made it to the final bout, but started out pretty much in the middle of the pack and I figured it would be just another race in which he didn’t place. Jer kept up a steady pace, however, gradually gaining on his competitors until he was neck and neck with the top four or five swimmers.

In the final few laps Jeremy surged ahead, drawing on reserves I didn’t even know he had. He handily swept into the top spot, earning a gold medal and breaking the world record for the event. I couldn’t believe it! Jeremy won a fuckin’ gold medal! My heart swelled with pride for him as he stood on the top pedestal and the Star Spangled Banner played as a gold medal was placed around his neck.

By the time the Closing Ceremony arrived, Jeremy had won five medals - two gold, one silver and two bronze. He had one of the highest medal counts of the entire Olympics and, on the U.S. team, came in second only to Michael Phelps. No one, I thought not even Jeremy himself, had expected him to do so well.

It wasn’t until after the Closing Ceremony that I saw Jeremy in an interview on ESPN in which he discussed his Olympic wins.

“Jeremy,” the announcer began, “I understand that you fasted throughout the entire Olympics.” My jaw just about dropped to the floor.

“Yes I did,” he answered. “For one thing I didn’t want it ever said that I beat out a competitor because they were a Muslim and were fasting. More importantly, though, I wanted to show solidarity with my Muslim counterparts. The IOC should have never scheduled the Olympics during the holy month of Ramadan. That was no less egregious than if they’d scheduled them during Christmas or Yom Kippur.”

“But you’re Jewish,” the announcer pointed out.

“Half-Jewish,” Jeremy corrected him, “but my religion doesn’t really matter. Sports should be about athletic performance and everyone being the best they can be. The Games should never be tainted by allegations of discrimination or racism. There was a time when I would have been barred from competing because I’m gay. Thank God that time is long gone. I know it’s impossible to cater to every potential ethnic and religious minority in an event as big as the Olympics, but the IOC has a responsibility to be sensitive to the beliefs and traditions practiced by a billion of Earth’s inhabitants.”

“And you won in spite of your fasting,” the announcer pointed out.

“Perhaps my fasting made me faster,” Jeremy quipped with a smile.

“I guess we’ll have to wait until Rio in 2016 to find out, then,” the announcer concluded.


It wasn’t until months later that we learned a terrorist plot to detonate a nuclear device at the Olympics had been thwarted. We all came perilously close to losing our lives, blissfully unaware of the detective work that had gone on behind the scenes. Had the terrorists succeeded, there wouldn’t have even been a Reynolds Administration. The video holographic chip, which was central to all imaging technology today and which was invented by Cathy Andrews, the Attorney General’s wife, might have never come to pass. So many lives would have been lost, each and every one a potential contributor to the future in which we now lived. There is an expression in the Jewish Talmud that to save a single life is to save the entire world. I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Jeremy never did compete in another Olympics. By 2016 he was too caught up in Law School to train effectively. Many tried to get him to change his mind, but Jer had other priorities and, as he put it, he already had his gold medals, so what did he have to prove? After that, he and David clerked for the Supreme Court, and then there was their stint with the American Red Cross, but that’s another story…

The author gratefully acknowledges the invaluable assistance of David of Hope in editing, Low Flyer in proofreading and Ed in beta reading my stories, as well as Gay Authors, Awesome Dude and Nifty for hosting them.

DISCLAIMER: This is a fictional account of the assassination of the first openly gay president of the United States. Except as noted, all characters are fictitious and the reader is cautioned against attributing anything from the story to real individuals. There are occasional descriptions of consensual sex between underage boys and it is the reader’s responsibility to ensure the legality of reading this material. The author retains full copyright.