“Which of us is the better fuck, Manrico?” I asked. “Me or Rick?”
Manrico groaned. “You are both very good to have sex with,” he assured us, diplomatically.
“How do you like fucking men now, Manrico?” Tomaso asked.
“I love it,” Manrico replied.
“You can have me, any time you want,” Tomaso promised.
“Me, too,” Donato said.
“You are such a puto!” Tomaso told him.
“So what if I am? So are you!”
Tomaso didn’t deny it.
Evidently inspired by what he saw and too impatient to wait until Manrico might be free, Donato now assumed the same position Rick was in.
“Fuck me, one of you,” the young fisherman demanded.
“Take him, Viscontino,” Tomaso invited me.
Soon I was pounding away at Donato’s butch ass, doing my best to imitate what Manrico was doing to Rick. Tomaso didn’t remain on the sidelines. He grabbed a handful of Donato’s hair and bluntly ordered his buddy to “Suck my cock!” Donato obeyed.
There was something especially hot about indulging in group sex right out there in the open air.
The sex smell was getting stronger as Donato’s anus gripped and stroked my cock. He was so excited that he was fucking himself on me. I didn’t have to thrust. His buttocks squirmed back to maintain contact with my groin while his sphincter flexed around my shaft. All the while, I could hear him slurping on Tomaso’s cazzo. Next to us, Manrico was pile driving his awesome young dick in and out of Rick’s ass with unrelenting force. Rick howled like a stricken beast as the stud fisherman used him.
I began to find it increasingly difficult to maintain control. I felt myself getting closer and closer to the edge.
Tomaso got there first. Closing his eyes, he threw back his head. I could tell that he was going to come. However, he didn’t come in Donato’s mouth. At the crucial moment, he pulled out. A series of white, fluid waves came pulsing out of him. The first one splashed across Donato’s face. The rest flew past Donato’s head, over his shoulder and landed right onto my chest.
“Cazzo, ah, cazzo!” Tomaso cried.
“That’s right, fucker,” I told him. “Shoot that hot cum all over me!”
The warm fluid hadn’t even had a chance to cool before Donato let out a garbled animal yell and his body shook under me as he, too, ejaculated. Observing those two loads of cum was too much for me. I felt my muscles contracting and tightening in the fierce grip of orgasm, then my own semen escaped from my cock, instantly recaptured by the reservoir tip of the rubber, deep inside Donato’s ass.
Next to us, Rick and Manrico, shouting their heads off, were also bringing each other off.
* * * *
A breeze had sprung up. We mariners took advantage of it. We hauled up the anchor and sailed—in an easterly direction this time, the boat skimming rapidly through the water. Donato handled the tiller, while Tomaso and Manrico, amid much laughter and joking, manned the sails.
Rick and I stood side by side, naked, in the prow of the boat, looking at the sea and sky. I tried to identify the various constellations overhead.
He slipped his arm around my waist and hugged me to him. “Do you forgive me for playing such a dirty trick on you?”
“I’m not one to keep a grudge,” I said, airily. “I’ll let it go this time.”
“Thatta boy.”
“What a beautiful night. I wish it would never end. How long can we stay out here, anyway?”
“As long as we like. Until dawn. We can watch the sun come up. But then we’ll have to head back to port. We’ll join the rest of the partygoers, for breakfast at The Blue Cat.”
“Um, just the thought of it is making me hungry. But I almost wish we could just stay out here on the water forever.”
“Yeah, imagine if we could. We could sail to Sicily and Malta…then east, to the Greek isles.”
“Captain Birbantio and his cabin boy,” I joked. “Off on a voyage of discovery and adventure.”
“Along with the three hunky members of their crew.”
I turned to him, put my arms around him, drew him close to me, and we kissed.
Chapter Fifteen
In Which I Receive Good News
During the following days and nights in San Floriano, I entertained certain fantasies, and they were the kind of fantasies that were not so far out of reach, easily transformed into reality, had I so chosen.
Suppose I simply turned my back on England, severed my ties there and moved to Italy? Suppose Rick and I became lovers?
I knew nothing about running a hotel, but I could learn. I had my own money, and I could invest some of it in the business. Rick and I could turn The Blue Cat into the finest small hotel in Italy. I knew now that I could paint in Italy, paint with a passion I had rarely experienced before.
I imagined Rick and me driving around the countryside in the Ferrari Mondial. I imagined people referring to us as Signor Rick, the American and Il Viscontino from England, that nice couple who run Il Gato Blu. I pictured us working together, building a future together. I also visualized us just relaxing together, having fun and of course, making love. But I kept these thoughts to myself.
Rick and I were having dinner one night—as always, in the dining room at The Blue Cat. I have to admit that I never tired of Francesca’s cooking. On this occasion, Rick wanted my opinion of some new items added to the menu. So, instead of one main course, Luigi presented me with a plate laden with small portions of no fewer than four different entrees. They were all excellent, and I found it difficult to state my preference.
We were contemplating ordering almond cake for dessert when Luigi came over to the table and very formally, offered me a small envelope, on a plate.
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” he said. “But this was just delivered, and I thought it might be important.”
It was a telegram. I opened it and read it…I read it again, to make sure it really said what I thought it did.
“Good news?’ Rick asked.
“The best. I can’t believe it. It’s from Geoff and he says his unit’s coming home.”
“When?”
“He’s not sure. Three or four weeks, at the most. He says he’ll cable me again when he has a definite date. Oh, this is wonderful. I can’t wait—”
I glanced up. Rick was staring at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess it’s rude of me to be so excited about another man.”
“No, don’t you dare apologize. We’re not talking about just any man. We’re talking about your man. But I wish you could’ve seen the look on your face, just now, when you first read that message. People say things like his face lit up. It’s true. You not only lit up, you practically went incandescent.”
“I’m that transparent, am I?”
“Crystalline. But tell me. You don’t have to rush off home to London right away, do you?”
“No, not as long as I’m there when Geoff gets there. God, I can’t wait to see him step off that plane.” I tried to control myself and not show so much emotion. I doubt I was very successful. “I’m assuming, of course, that he still feels as hot for me as I feel for him.”
“Oh, I think that’s how the smart money would bet. But we have to celebrate your good news. Luigi!” Rick called. “Bring us a bottle of that Greco di Tufo that just came in. This is as good an occasion as any to try it. And we’ll both have the almond cake, too.”
When Luigi brought us the wine, Rick poured it out and proposed a toast.
“Here’s to Geoff’s safe return.”
“Thank you, Rick. And here’s to the new friends I’ve made here in Italy.”
“I’ll drink to that. How would you like to do your friends here a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Stay here until you do have to leave. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t, is there?”
“
No.”
“We’ll throw a little party for you, on your last night here. To give you a proper send-off.”
“I’d like that. But nothing fancy, please.”
“No, just lots of good food, good booze and your friends. I’ll invite everybody. It’ll be fun. And from now until then for these few weeks you’ll still be here with us—” He hesitated.
“What?”
“Stay with me. Be with me. Make love to me. Let me be a little selfish. Let me have you all to myself, for this little while. Let’s enjoy each other.”
“All right, let’s.”
“That was fast. I was afraid you’d need some persuading.”
“None at all.”
“Aren’t you afraid I might try to talk you out of leaving?”
“No. For one thing, you’d have to do a lot more than just talk, to have any hope of that happening. You’d have to pull out some pretty heavy sex moves.”
He laughed. “Maybe that’ll be part of my strategy, too.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“But let’s not joke for a moment. Let’s be serious.”
“Of course.”
“I like you so much. I’m so fond of you. I think it would be wonderful to have you as a lover. But if you and Geoff are in love, I’d never do anything to jeopardize that. I want you and I to be friends. I don’t want to give up that part of our relationship.”
“Neither do I.”
“From what you’ve told me about him, your Geoff doesn’t seem like the jealous type. As long as he’s got you, he shouldn’t mind you having another dude carrying the torch for you. Especially when the torch is burning here in Italy, at a safe distance. It might be different if I was running a hotel in London.”
“Yes, it would. I’d probably be tempted to check in permanently.”
“Okay, that’s enough serious talk for one night. Now let’s be frivolous and have ourselves some fun.”
“Yes, let’s.”
“What would you like to do?”
I thought for a moment. “Nothing extravagant. But I remember you inviting me, once, for a night-time jog on the beach and a swim. I’d love to do that, if you feel up to it. It’d be a good way to work off all the calories from this excellent meal.”
“Tonight would be a perfect night for it. Let’s do it. Come on, we’ll need to change our clothes and grab a few things.”
It was a magical night. We jogged barefoot on the sand. We swam in the nude. The few things Rick had remembered to bring along included a blanket, a disposable cigarette lighter, a box of condoms and a tube of lubricant. After our swim, we chose a particularly isolated stretch of the beach, on which to build a fire from driftwood and other debris. There, beside the crackling flames, we spread out the blanket and made love, taking turns fucking each other underneath the stars.
Chapter Sixteen
Babylonian Excesses
In the two weeks that followed, things went on much as before. I painted. Rick ran the hotel. We took most of our meals together. He and I slept together every night, in his bed.
Rick also paid me what was, coming from him, the ultimate compliment. He actually took time out from his work to spend with me. We jogged and swam or simply killed time together on the beach. We rented a rowboat from one of the fishermen and went out into the bay. We took the Ferrari on tours of the countryside and saw the sights. Sometimes we dispensed with the sightseeing and drove aimlessly through the back roads, talking.
Our most memorable excursion, however, was to Naples. To surprise me, Rick had booked us a hotel room there for the night and he had also gotten tickets to the Teatro San Carlo.
This venerable opera house had recently undergone a thorough renovation and it looked spectacular, both inside and out. For one thing, the red and gold auditorium was now air-conditioned, which was a decided advantage when a performance took place during the month of August. I was quite excited as we took our seats in the auditorium.
The opera that night was Verdi’s Nabucco, with a young Irish baritone in the title role. I took care to bone up on the opera beforehand, reading the plot summary in the program notes.
Rick and I soon discovered, to our amusement, that some things in Italy never change. This was a new production and rumoured to be plagued by last-minute cast changes and inadequate rehearsal time.
When the curtain rose on Act One, however, all seemed well. The stage set looked like something from an old Hollywood Technicolor epic.
Nabucco is an opera based very loosely on the biblical story of Nebuchadnezzar, the king of Babylon. In Act One of the opera, Nabucco and his Assyrian army are attacking Jerusalem, and the Hebrews have assembled in their temple, prepared to defend it against the invaders. Zaccaria, the Jewish high priest, exhorts his people to have faith in Jehovah and defy the infidels.
Within a few minutes after the start of the opera, I had to conclude that either the director or the costume designer, or both, must have been gay. In addition to the solo singers and the chorus, the stage was crowded with non-singing extras, mostly well-built young men. They were supposed to be young Jewish soldiers ready to defend the temple against the besieging Assyrians, but they looked like fugitives from some 1960’s Italian sword-and-sandal movie starring Steve Reeves, Gordon Scott or Mark Forest. They wore skimpy pleated skirts, helmets and very little else. The last time I’d seen so many bare male chests and thighs had been at Le Terme di Nettuno. On that occasion, the proceedings had been decidedly secular and not at all religious.
While the bass, portraying Zaccaria, delivered his inspiring address, behind him, at the top of a steep flight of steps, was a massive altar topped by an equally oversized menorah. Real flames burned on each of the menorah’s arms and floated quite picturesquely in the air. It made for a beautiful stage picture, until suddenly the menorah itself caught on fire and Zaccaria had to keep on singing while behind him flames and smoke engulfed the altar.
The audience, at first shocked and worried, soon started laughing hysterically. The music was still going on. None of the performers faltered—they went right on singing, although I could see that they were looking out of the corners of their eyes to monitor the progress of the fire. Finally, one of the skimpily costumed extras sprinted off stage. He came running back on a moment later, carrying a bright red fire extinguisher, with which he proceeded to douse the flames. The audience cheered him. As though this was all in a day’s work, he set the extinguisher down, out of sight and rejoined the ranks. The fumes from the fire extinguisher drifted across the stage toward the orchestra pit and Zaccaria and the other singers had to cough to clear their throats.
We now got our first chance to see and hear the Russian soprano assigned to the notoriously difficult role of Abigaille, Nabucco’s aggressive bitch of a daughter. She was a slim, glamorous woman and she acted up a storm. If she’d have been gifted with a magnificent voice, then we might have really had something. No such luck. She might not have been a very accurate or beautiful singer, but she sure was loud. She sounded like a castrated bullfrog in the lower register and she threw out strident, wobbly high notes.
Next, the Assyrian warriors, impersonated by more half-naked extras, invaded the temple, although in this case they were distinguished from their Jewish counterparts by their bizarre headgear, which rather made them look as though they’d been marching in a Mardi Gras parade. In fact, the orchestra, along with an off-stage band, was playing a march, to accompany the triumphant entrance into the temple of the conqueror, Nabucco. According to the original stage directions, he was supposed to enter riding a horse, but this production wisely—or, as things turned out, perhaps unwisely—dispensed with the live animal.
Instead, four of the Assyrian warriors, especially hulking numbers, strode in carrying on their shoulders a little platform on which our Irish baritone stood tall. He was a handsome bloke, costumed in full armour and it made an impressive stage picture. I wondered, though, how in t
he hell he was going to descend from his precarious-looking high perch. I soon found out.
On the last chord of the march, the four muscle men dropped to their knees, quickly lowering the platform so Nabucco could step off it onto the stage floor. Unfortunately, one of the two guys in the front miscalculated and came down too fast and the platform tilted, dumping the baritone right onto the stage. He landed with a thud and yelled “Shit!” in plain English. Grimacing and obviously in a good deal of pain, the poor bastard struggled to get up on his hands and knees—then he started singing, as though nothing had happened. What a trouper!
After a few bars, the bass playing Zaccaria—who at this point in the opera is supposed be Nabucco’s deadly enemy—went over to the bruised baritone and rather chivalrously helped him get to his feet.
Performances at the San Carlo are given with generous intermissions, during which the audience members stroll around the lobby and the corridors, visit one another in their boxes and go to the bar to have a drink. People were debating which had been the highlight of the performance so far—the conflagration or the baritone’s tumble.
Act Two of Nabucco begins with an especially challenging scene for Abigaille. She has a forceful recitative, followed by an aria in which she expresses her unrequited love for the tenor, then a vigorous cabaletta with male chorus. Our Russian soprano threw herself into the sequence, but not without some caterwauling, and at the end of the scene there was a near-riot, with half the audience booing, the other half applauding. I couldn’t believe my eyes when two young men seated near us actually got into a shouting and shoving match. Before they could exchange fisticuffs, the ushers came running down the aisle and calmed them down. The conductor, who had turned around to see what the interruption was all about, shrugged, raised his baton again and the performance resumed.
At the beginning of Act Three, Abigaille has—very temporarily, as it turns out—become the Queen of Babylon, and she gloats over the fact. The director had evidently decided that in addition to her other undesirable qualities, Abigaille was a nymphomaniac. So he hauled out his hard-working male extras again. This time they portrayed slave boys, whom Abigaille fondled throughout the scene while they flexed, preened and competed for her attention. Once again, I thought I was back in The Baths of Neptune. The audience found all of the groping amusing— their titters and ribald comments could be heard over the music.
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