It seems every older boy who sports chin fuzz wants to get into your groin these days? That's unless they already have a companion of their own to fuck around with.
But Phaenius formally asked Father for me to be his eromenos, Father told me later. It's very flattering but it's a damn stupid thing to ask. Father would always have asked me first. So instead Father said 'No, go ask Antinous.'
My friend with the disheveled blond hair and wine dribbling down his chin remained thoughtful for a few moments before continuing.
'I guess he sensed he had no chance with me. Yet I suppose he's a good catch for somebody, yes, Lys? He's a top athlete and militia man, he's good with weapons, he's from a wealthy family, and has good contacts with Romans. His physique has its admirers too, he's very trim.
But he's also up himself. He thinks he's really special. Besides, Lys, he's not my type, if I have a type, that is? I told Father I was still very unsure about the eromenos/erastes thing anyway. He understands. I don't think I want someone I don't respect trying to mount me, Lys. I'm not that desperate.'
After a moment I took my opportunity at last. 'So, what is your type then, Ant?'
I think my query was somewhat transparent to Antinous. He sensed how perhaps I secretly aspired to be his erastes myself. Antinous considered his reply carefully amid the mellow haze of the wine. We both knew each other so well, and shared so many values and experiences, that the idea of being confirmed as a 'couple' until our maturity as bearded ephebes wasn't necessarily an outlandish one.
In Bithynia same-age couples are not typical but not unknown, as long as it wasn't a cinaedus style of relationship, whatever that really means. But there would always be the problem of deciding who was mentor and who the mentored?
This led to the sensitive issue of who imposed on who if sex was to be a facet of the relationship. And the issue of who tops and who bottoms would quickly surface for lads like us. Sex was at the very forefront of our being and existence.
You probably appreciate, gentlemen, from your own youthful days, how Bithynians in their sexually-charged meirakion years fulfill a 'boys will be boys' role. That's despite the fine sentiments of ancient philosophers or religious crackpots. They expect their pals to do good things for each other, but with some restraint rather than abandon. I'm not too sure if much restraint is actually practiced though. Sex makes its own rules in a guy's life.
Yet we also both also understood it is customary for the erastes to provide gifts of armor or weaponry to his eromenos, to teach advanced fighting skills in continual practice, to provide mutual public protection, and to join drinking parties to share wild times and possibly sex with other young aristocrats or enjoying the services of slaves or sex workers. Ultimately it is important the erastes introduce his eromenos to new social connections among our peers. This also provides networking opportunities for later life in the military, in trade, or in government.
The usual reciprocal exchange for these gestures, as well as the glue to their rapport, is obviously going to be sex. After a lifetime of observing strict emotional distance from the senior males of our lives, we were at an age where closeness takes a priority in our affairs.
'What's my type, Lys? I'm duty-bound by Father to enter a marriage contract with Deianira, a cousin on my deceased mother's side of the family, when she comes of age and her dowry matures. This is my 'type' and destiny, Lys,' Antinous affirmed. 'It is my Father's command. Yet Deianira is still a wee babe. Even menarche is five years away.'
At Bithynia, gentlemen, we and our caste understand how the postponement of marriage with its expenses in child-rearing or providing housing is a valuable by-product of the pedagogy system. This delay helps control the birth-rate, limits family expenditures, and constrains a dividing of inheritances among land owners. This is especially necessary with such limited arable soil where continuing division may lead to uneconomic fragmentation.
'My type?' Antinous repeated. 'I don't know if I have a type, Lys. Of all the guys at the palaestra hankering to smooth-talk me into sex, few inspire me to return the gesture let alone waggle my tail at them. In fact, except for you and our personal rat pack, I don't feel any desire to share the company, let alone the flesh, of those guys.
I feel misused by the ones who eye us too saucily, Lys, regardless of their high status or superior fighting skills or fine physiques. So I wish they'd stop staring at me and my private parts when we're training or competing. It's very flattering, but it distracts me.'
Through the warm fug of wine I felt obliged to reassure him.
'They're probably just appreciating your form, Ant. You're developing very well, you know, in all things,' I heard myself offering. 'I overhear the whispers about you after wrestling bouts or watching you sprinting or casting javelin. They admire your shape plus your personal cool. Many secretly fancy you, and some not so secretly.'
'No, Lys,' Antinous corrected me, 'they're just checking out your flesh, your privates, or your butt. They're also fantasizing whether you go-off like a broody mare on heat and scream 'have me, have me!' I've already seen lewd ditties scratched on walls in Polis about me, Lys, cruel ones, ones which insult my lineage. They were probably scrawled by the fool Phaenius after Father said 'No!'
They're insulting limericks claiming I'm a no-good fuck who's happy to go with anyone for money, while my mother's a whore and my Father's a cinaedus reprobate.
We both know none of that is true, Lys! I've never done it with anyone, not even you my best friend, despite our jerk-off competitions sometimes. Mother died long ago and Father is certainly no cinaedus! So I had to sneak out after dark with a brace of slaves to protect me against night goons to whitewash the graffiti away.'
The flames in the campfire had reduced to a comforting glow. The occasional consoling snort of a pony and the distant cry of a night bird added to the wine-mellow mood of the night. The moon shone hazily behind racing autumn clouds. Honesty was now on the agenda.
'I could never prostitute myself, Lys, nor could you,' Antinous declared. 'We're too choosy, and it's beneath us anyway. We both know our names would be erased from the city roll and we'd never hold our heads high among our people again. Civic Law would prohibit us from serving on the town council or ever voting in the Assembly, because we might sell our vote just as we sold our body.
Father would then disown me utterly or have me killed outright, and I wouldn't blame him. My inheritance, for what it's worth as a second son, would be forfeit. And my betrothed bride Deianira, the baby cousin I've only met once, would have the dowry oath cancelled. It would be as death to me!'
My friend with his fading summer tan of golden skin and his shock of blond hair protested aloud. Silence prevailed for some moments while the flames crackled and snapped.
'Lys, tell me, is it really important to have an erastes?' Antinous muttered moodily. 'Am I missing something? Do you feel you need an erastes in your life?'
There was another long pause. I wasn't sure of the answer, but in this brooding fireside exchange approaching sleep now hovered languorously in the air.
'It depends on who it is, I suppose,' I replied reluctantly. 'Most of our rat-pack have already paired-off with some guy with good connections or fighting skills who has been approved by their father. Others have done so on the sly with fuck-buddies because the approval might not be forthcoming for the guy they're keen on. The rest of the lads are still playing around, showing-off their pecs and abs at the palaestra, or flirting with anyone who takes their fancy.