Bobby Ames, fourteen and beautiful, has everything he wants at St. Matthews Boys School: a roomate-lover, companionship with his classmates, hero-worship by the younger boys, and approval from the headmaster and other faculty. Then, suddenly his mother dies in a boating accident, and Bobby decides he must leave his sanctuary to find his father whom he hasn't seen since infancy. By way of many exciting, erotic adventures, he ends up in Amsterdam. There he is taken in by a strange "foundation" that matches boys with men needing sons, heirs--and lovers.
Quote:There is no burden heavier for a fourteen-year-old boy than that of a delayed ripening, and Bret still looked more like twelve. It was, on the one hand, a part of his charm; it was also something upon which it was not fair game to play if he appeared at all unwilling. Now he looked quickly at Bobby and perhaps closed his eyes for a moment in gratitude. Had he been put to the test of effervescence, as he and Swann and one other boy in the room knew, he would have failed.
There was a knock at the door. Bobby opened it to admit Tom Carstairs and a platter of cookies. Bledsoe and Quin-Quiller were with him. They carried four large bottles of Coke, some more crisps and a bowl of hard boiled eggs.
“Hi, Ames.” Carstairs said. “Present from Clara.”
“Drinks, too,” Wells piped and relieved Quin-Quiller of two bottles. “Opener?”
Anthony reached in his desk drawer and produced one. He wrenched off the top of a quart and passed the opener to Quin-Quiller who poured one of the bottles out into several cups. He presented one to Bobby.
“Sorry, old boy. Don’t know what to say really. Cheers.” “Thanks, Quin. Cheers is a good thing to say.”
“Here’s to you, Yank,” Bledsoe said, raising his cup. Carstairs passed the cookies to him,
“Sweets for the sweet,” he said. Carstairs played the role of house vamp broadly. No one would have dreamed of condemning him for it, embarrassed as it sometimes made the other boys, for there was also something sinful and bold about it which teased at their imaginations.
“Hey, this is turning into a pretty good wake! I mean… Sorry, Ames. You know what I mean.”
“It’s okay, Mason. It’s great you’re all here. Really.”
“You going to the funeral, Ames?” Bledsoe asked.
“I don’t think so. I don’t think there’ll be one. The boat burned up at sea.”
“How ghastly,” Quin-Quiller said through a half-chewed peanut butter cookie. “Did it sink?”
“The rector didn’t say. I guess it must have.”
“How’d they find out?”
“The guy she was with. He swam ashore. He was probably sleeping on the deck and she below. I suppose it was the alcohol stove. It always gave me the creeps.”
“So what happens to you now, Ames?”
“What do you mean?”
