Chapter 1

Advanced Philosophy was such a fucking drag. It had sounded interesting on the college schedule, but no one had told Joe Barnes that the professor had all the teaching skills of a dead sheep.

The only bright spot was Ron Driscoll, a totally gorgeous hunk who sat opposite. Joe knew from the camouflage jacket and the dog tags Ron always wore, plus his general demeanor, that the shaven-headed, blue-eyed man was in the reserve officer training corps. Even though the guy stood only five feet four inches, Ron just had a presence: a natural leadership ability that made him appear much taller.

Joe, who stood five feet even, secretly thought of Ron as Alexander the Great, and desperately wished he could be his Hephaestion.

“Now, Mr. Barnes, perhaps you could enlighten us on why Kant disagrees with this proposal?”

Joe felt more than saw every eye in the room turn to him. He squirmed, realizing he’d been caught daydreaming. He glanced down at his notebook and read Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. He had no idea why he’d written that. Was it a comment about his feelings for Ron?

“Mr. Barnes?” the professor asked, scratching his beard.

Joe would never know what possessed him to do what he did next. Fixing his gaze on Ron, Joe said, “Kant argues, first of all, that such a belief can’t account for our experience of beauty itself, insofar as the tendency is always to see beauty as if it were somehow in the object or the immediate experience of that object.”

Momentarily tearing his gaze away from his idea of the personification of beauty, Joe saw everyone looking at him eagerly, so he assumed he was somewhat on the right track.

“And second, Kant believes that such a relativist view doesn’t account for the social behavior of our claims about what we find beautiful.”

Joe felt himself warm to his theme. He resisted the urge to stand up, walk round the table and encourage Ron to get to his feet so he could point out to his fellow students a perfect example of true beauty.

“Kant introduces the idea of the free play of the cognitive faculties, understanding and imagination, as well as the related idea of communicability. In the case of the judgment of the beautiful, these faculties no longer simply work together, as they do in ordinary sensible cognition, but each furthers or quickens the other in a kind of self-contained and self-perpetuating cascade of thought and feeling.”

The room remained silent, no one moved. Joe’s eyes dropped to his notebook, staring fixedly at the almost blank page. He began to quake inwardly; what the hell had he done?

“Does anyone disagree with that assessment?” The professor looked around the room, but no one spoke. “Congratulations, Mr. Barnes, you have rendered your fellow students speechless.”

Is that a good or a bad thing? Although Joe would often break out of his natural shyness to venture an opinion in class discussion, never had he waxed so poetical or at such length on a subject. But then, the subject had never before been so closely related to his feelings about Ron.

“A most concise summation, Mr. Barnes. Thank you,” The professor started to gather his papers. “I think that about wraps things up for today, ladies and gentlemen. Please remember your assignments are due Monday.”

The room quickly emptied of students, Joe being the last to leave. As he trudged toward the bathroom, totally unaware of the mass of students milling around him, Joe was deeply regretting his impassioned response. Sure he was gay; he’d never made any pretensions about hiding the fact. But not hiding, and indulging in such a public display of…whatever it was, were two very different things.

* * * *

The semester rolled along. Each day followed a similar pattern. Joe would attend morning classes if he had any, then go to the student’s dining hall, grab something and eat alone before hiding out in the library until his next class began.

However, while still hovering on the periphery of college social life, Joe now had a spring in his step, a reason to get out of bed in the mornings and haul his ass to class. That reason, of course, was Ron Driscoll.

Almost unintentionally Joe began to wear the same kind of clothes his idol wore: fatigue pants, olive drab T-shirts, and combat boots. Joe didn’t own a camouflage jacket, and was reluctant to buy one, although he would often look longingly at them in store windows. He even went online to look at dog tags, but again chickened out from making a purchase. Joe’s imagination worked overtime as it conjured up images of him and Ron wedged snugly in a foxhole, a battle raging around them.

Wouldn’t have to be a large foxhole, Joe told himself. In fact the smaller, the cozier we’d be.

Whenever Ron advanced an argument in class discussions, Joe always spoke up in support. But outside of class there was no interaction between them. Ron never broke away from the coterie of sycophants that always seemed to surround him. The closest Joe felt comfortable to joining in was to sit at the next table in the dining hall listening to the man himself holding forth on the last round of maneuvers or strategy games that he’d taken part in.

Friday came round again, and Joe eagerly made his way to his last class, philosophy, and the amazing, perfect, and drool-worthy Ron.

As Prof Dead Sheep warmed to his theme, Joe’s mind began to wander, as did his eyes. “Epistemology. What is the nature of knowledge?” The prof paused.

Joe wondered if this was a rhetorical question, or if it was meant to open a discussion. He didn’t know, and judging by the lack of response, none of his fellow students did either. Joe went back to the much more interesting task of sneaking glances at Ron’s finely-honed facial features.

“How do we come to know what we know?” the professor continued.