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Well, the Fourth of July is over!

Charlotte has set up a room for herself downstairs so she can come and go as she needs without bothering me. She is so thoughtful. Being a doctor is demanding. We no longer sleep in the same bed. Sex has become rare as the drugs I take have all but made me lose interest, other than an occasional quick jerkoff in the early morning light.

This is not easy for me to admit but recently, when I was alone at the house, there was a knock on the door. I answered it and a young man stood there with a large box.

“Mr. Gilman? Your wife asked that I bring these groceries out to you because she thinks she will be stuck at the hospital tonight,” he announced very formally.

I had not spoken to another person in a long time other than Charlotte and invited him in for a cup of coffee or a Dr. Pepper. He said he has always wanted to see the inside of the house, that it was a legend in the town.

I ended up giving him a tour instead of making coffee. He was constantly expressing how beautiful it was, and his comments even made me see it with fresh eyes. The house is amazing.

When we reached the top floor I showed him my room. He walked in slowly. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “This is
the room.” I looked at him as asked what he meant.

He turned pale, “I think I better be going now. I’m feeling dizzy.”

I said, “Here, lie down,” as I guided him to the bed.

He closed his eyes and continued breathing deeply but looked like he might have fainted. I looked at his youthful face, he was probably only 16 or 17. As I studied him I found my own breathing getting slower and deeper; my skin was feeling warm. I felt an urge to lightly brush his face with my hand. I was getting an erection at seeing moisture on his soft lips. The idea passed through my mind that I could unbutton his shirt so that he could breath better. That was a crazy thought. What was happening to me? I had not had sexual feelings toward another guy before.

I controlled my inclinations and helped the young man up. He seemed to feel okay once we entered the hall again.

However, I have to confess that after he left I returned to the room and lay on the bed and masturbated to an intense orgasm, after which I broke into a deep cry that made my shoulders shake.

Charlotte is kept at work very often by serious cases and is home less and less, so I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely road, sit on the porch under the roses, and lie down up here.

I'm getting really fond of the room in spite of the wallpaper. Perhaps because of the wallpaper. I’ve given up on trying to keep my razor charged. Beards are back in fashion anyway.

I lie here on this great immovable bed and follow that pattern with my eyes for hours. It is as good as gymnastics. I start, we'll say, at the bottom, down in the corner over there where it has not been touched, and I determine for the thousandth time that I will follow that pointless pattern to some sort of a conclusion.

I still remember the young man who delivered the groceries. I picture him lying on the bed. His breathing, and his eyes visibly moving under soft white eyelids. I wish he would return.

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