Sodomy!

The von Gloedenesque serving boy—he reeked of Mediterranean rough trade, and Quilty could only hope he was of age—cleared away dishes that had been licked clean of panna cotta, and poured fussy little glasses of Port.

“I came, as you’re aware, from a good deal of money, so I’ve been able to afford all this.” With a grand sweep of his arm, the Witch indicated his surroundings, including the handsome young man. “And, really, at this stage of my life, there are only two major causes for discomfort. First, there’s the inexorable passage of time, which is, you know, or at least can surmise, a bitch. And, perhaps more acutely, there’s my utter inadequacy when confronted by the beauty of men…well, let’s be honest, young men. Of course, I can easily afford to hire company. The financial aspect of such transactions might well be viewed as somehow demeaning, it’s true. But when a smooth, slim 20-year-old strips down, lies back, his lovely cock standing straight up against a jet-black thicket of pubic hair, and, at my command, opens his ass to me till I can see the pink corona, glimpse the darkness within….” He took a sip of the Port and stared out into middle space.

At last Quilty, concerned the rest of the evening might be a waste, coughed gently. The Witch was brought back. “You know,” he continued, “I’d bet that many of us who write dirty stories do it, at least in part, in an attempt to master lust. Not to overcome it, but to
make it, through thought and word, our servant. To capture desire, quintessential desire. And in this we are damn well bound to lose.

“Ah, but what’s a poor old fag with a penchant for words to do? Become a writer like all the rest, it seems. I knew them all, of course. Tennessee, Truman, Bill Burroughs. They were not happy people. Understatement.”

Quilty had been imagining the Witch staring quizzically at some young hustler with his finger up his butt. Now he was afraid that the interview had slid to an end. He had more than enough material, most likely, to use for the thesis, but….

“It all just makes me sad,” the Witch concluded. “Melancholy. Sad.”
Long, silent moments passed. At last, Quilty spoke up. “Thank you, sir. Thank you for your hospitality, and your time, and your… mind.”