The Virgin King

by John Michael Curlovich

  “Can you get him to approve our deal?”

  Logan thought that, yes, he probably could. But he was starting to feel like a pawn in a diplomatic chess game, and he didn’t like it. “We’re not that close.”

  P.T. smiled a smug smile. “Yet. I know you, Logan. If there’s one thing about you I’m sure of, it’s—”

  “Don’t say it, dad. You wouldn’t really pimp me out to increase your corporate profits, would you?”

  “I’m a Republican. I believe in traditional family values. And there’s nothing more traditional than money.”

  “Swell. Just great.”

  “But I’ll have to let Washington know about this damn plot. It’s going to be a balancing act, and I don’t want to make any wrong moves. Besides… ” He paused for a long moment. “I’m supposed to have lunch with Count Schlutow today, precisely to discuss the tin deal.”

  Logan had to admire their efficiency and relentlessness. He whistled. “They’re not wasting any time, are they?”

  “They can’t very well do anything till Raymond gets back from this trip. So we’ve got time. Keep stalling them. I’ll do the same.” He paused again, then added, “And don’t tell Constantine about this. This is way too important for a junior bureaucrat.”

  “Sure. Oh, and Dad?”

  “Hm?”

  “Don’t tell them about me and Raymond. Not that there’s anything to tell, really. I mean, they know we’ve met, and… Well, just don’t tell them, okay?”

  “I’m a diplomat. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this game, it’s how to play my cards close to my vest.”

  * * *

  A week later Logan had still not found an outlet for his sexual urges. The guards kept rebuffing him, and Constantine was out of the question.

  Marge was amused by his frustration. “A week? You haven’t gone without it for that long since you were in Pampers.”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  She suggested that he get close to Constantine. “Any port in a storm, after all.”

  “I’ve already docked in that port. And believe me, once was enough. He’d probably issue a protocol for oral sex, for Christ’s sake. There has to be a gay bar someplace in this city. Why can’t I find it?”

  “Like a pig hunting for truffles.”

  “You’re no help at all, Margery.”

  He buried himself in his photography project to keep his mind off men. And he wrapped it up, he decided some panoramic shots of the harbor would be a good idea. So he climbed to the embassy roof and set up a camera and tripod with a telephoto lens.

  He had to admit to himself, despite his current frustration, that it was a gorgeous vista. The deep blue of the sea, the brilliant white of the sailing craft bobbing gently in the surf, the long curving harbor dotted with little islands, the blazing sun above it all… Landscape photography had never really been Logan’s specialty; he was more of a portrait man. But he wanted to capture the natural and manmade beauties of Flausenthurmopolis for the magazine.

  And then it hit him: the islands. Guardsmen’s Island! That was the place he’d been looking for.

  He trained his telephoto lens on it. And there they were. Guardsmen, naked, lounging on the beach or moving into and out of the bushes. Even at this distance he could see that some of them had hardons. That was the place, Valhalla, the Promised Land.

  He got his final shots quickly, and 20 minutes later he was at the harbor renting a small motorboat for himself. The surf was a bit rough, but he managed the boat without too much trouble. Guardsmen’s Island. He watched it as he approached. Men, naked men on the beach. Sex, there would be sex. He was wildly excited; after a week of enforced abstinence it was all he could do not to come in his pants at the mere thought of it.

  Finally, he was there. Not bothering to take his shoes and socks off, he jumped eagerly into the water at the shoreline and pulled his boat up onto the sand.

  And almost at once two guardsmen approached him. One was blond, the other a redhead. He didn’t recognize either of them. Except for the ceremonial swords they carried, they were naked; their lean, muscular bodies seemed to glow in the sunlight. Their pubes were shaved, and their cocks were huge; half-erect. They had obviously been having sex and would be again soon enough. His mouth watered at the thought of what they’d be doing in a few minutes.

  The blond inspected him with mild curiosity. “Good day, sir. May we help you?”

  He put on a bright smile. “I’m Logan Bockwein, a friend of the king and Alex Borodenko.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I—I’ve come out for a day of recreation.” They seemed to grow more beautiful each moment. Logan couldn’t wait to touch them, taste them, feel them inside of him.

  “This is Guardsman’s Island, sir, off limits to everyone except members of the king’s Royal Guard.”

  “I know where I am. But as I said, I’m a friend of—”

  “We must ask you to leave, sir.” The redhead had a deep, masculine voice. Logan wanted him.

  A few feet along the beach a group of five young guardsmen were playing. They lay on the sand in a ring, and each of them was sucking the cock of the next man. The sight had Logan wildly excited; he wanted to make a similar chain with the two guards who were confronting him. “Leave? I’m a friend of Captain Borodenko.” He added lamely, “And the king.”

  “I’m afraid neither of them is here, sir. If you really are their friend, you must be aware that they are out of the country.”

  “I’m quite aware of that. But I thought—”

  “Please, sir. Go now.”

  And that was that. Glumly, puzzled and vaguely hurt, Logan got back into his motorboat and returned to the harbor.

  * * *

  “Dad, I’ve got to get out of this country. I can’t stand it here.”

  P.T. looked up from his desk, where he had been reading some State Department communiqués. “You can’t, Logan. I need you here.”

  “But I—”

  “The deal is in the works, at least Schlutow says it is—but he wants a cut. One way or the other, the king will have to sign off on it. Schlutow ways that will be no problem. But I need you here to make sure of it. If we can swing the deal without Schlutow and the queen in the mix, it’ll mean more profits for us. I need you.”

  “But I—”

  “Besides, the Secretary of State will be touring this part of the world next month. We don’t have confirmation yet that she’ll actually be coming to Bulvania. But if we can have the tin deal all worked out and ready to go, it’ll be a big incentive for her. I told you, the Pentagon’s counting on that tin.”

  Trapped. Logan’s heart sank. “Tin soldiers.”

  “That’s no attitude, Logan. This is for the family, the company and the country. You can’t leave. After everything’s worked out… we’ll see.”

  “Just for a week or two. I need to get to London or New York.”

  P.T. smiled knowingly. “Aren’t there enough men here?”

  “It’s a long, rotten story.”

  “Well, you can’t leave. Negotiations are too delicate, and we need you here to keep stringing the count along.”

  “Damn.”

  “You’ll survive. “Why don’t you go up the mountain to St. Dymphna’s? Get to know the monks.”

  “If Raymond is any example, no thanks.”

  P.T. tried to make his tone as kind and understanding as he could. “Look, you can’t leave. I know what you have in mind, and I know you haven’t gone without it for so long since you were a kid. But I need you here, and so does the U.S.”

  Logan muttered, “God bless America,” turned and left.

  * * *

  His photographic equipment was still in place on the embassy roof. He climbed the stairs to it, unhappy, muttering to himself about the fate that had brought him to Bulvania, planning to take a few final photos and wrap up his project.

  The day was still bright and sunny. He got a few quick shots of the ca
thedral, the palace, the river in the afternoon light. Then, impulsively but inevitably, he turned his telephoto lens on Guardsmen’s Island.

  They were still there. The afternoon sunlight lit their bodies perfectly. Lean, smooth bodies glistening with sweat. He paused for a moment to wonder how they could do what they were doing so openly, in full view of anyone on shore with a telescope. But that didn’t seem to bother them, so why should Logan trouble over it?

  He recognized some of the faces he saw; and some of the bodies were familiar. There were two dozen or more men, all undressed or in the briefest bikinis. Some cavorted playfully on the beach, running, chasing each other, tossing balls around. Others were engaged in more intimate activities. Kissing, fondling, licking. Some couples stood, others lay on the sand. A group of four guards took turns worshiping each other’s feet.

  Erect cocks stood out clearly. Men sucked, licked, stroked. A pair of guardsmen licked a third guy’s butt. Couples fucked. It was too much to stand, hotter than the hottest porn film. Logan got out his cock and began stroking. Slowly, slowly, he wanted this to last, he stroked, he fondled, he manipulated.

  A guardsman spanked his boyfriend, and the bottom guy smiled so widely Logan could see it clearly. He stroked.

  Another guard lay facedown on the sand, and Logan watched as one man after another fucked him. When the man finally rolled over, Logan saw that it was Evgeny.

  Logan kept moving his lens, checking out one part of the island after another, and everywhere he looked there were guardsmen making love.

  There were a few other men too, mingling among the guards. Logan knew he had seen them, but he also knew they weren’t part of the Royal Guard. After a moment he recognized them: they were young priests from the cathedral. They and their friends in the guards engaged in every kind of sex imaginable, spanking, pissing, tying each other up and playfully “torturing”…

  Finally, he couldn’t contain it any longer. Logan stroked himself to a huge climax. A week’s worth of jizz spattered onto the embassy roof.

  Priests. Young, fit priests on the island, playing with the guardsmen. So much for the separation of church and state. And so much for the claim that the island was only open to guardsmen. Why had his friends turned against him? Why was he no longer welcome? He had no doubt the same kind of activity was taking place in the guards’ courtyard at the palace. And he wasn’t part of it.

  For the first time in longer than he could remember, Logan felt alone, and lonely.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  That set the tone for the next several weeks. Photography, jerking off, waiting for a chance to get out of the country, dreaming now and then of the guards and even of Raymond. That visit from the Secretary of State never happened; but several important undersecretaries kept announcing visits, then postponing them, to everyone’s frustration. P.T. kept stringing the count and the queen along, and he needed Logan to be on the scene to get away with it; so leaving was out of the question. The count was getting impatient; he kept sending Logan messages like “Now or never!” which Logan never answered.

  Sexual frustration was taking its toll. “There has to be a gay bar or club somewhere in this city,” he complained to Marge. “Not even Flausenthurmopolis can be that backward.”

  She laughed. “You mean you haven’t found Etc. yet?”

  “Etc.?”

  “It’s a bar over on Schlutow Boulevard. Mixed crowd, but nice.”

  “Why haven’t you told me about this before?”

  “You were enjoying being a martyr to celibacy so much, I didn’t want to ruin it for you.”

  He growled at her and made a gesture like a lion tearing at a baby antelope.

  That night he went to check it out. The bar turned out to be a low-profile kind of place. The entrance was lit by a single bare light bulb. There was no sign, no indication at all of the kind of establishment it was. If you weren’t specifically looking for it you’d never know it was there.

  Logan approached it with high expectations. Then his heart sank. One of the Royal Guards was on duty at the door.

  “I’m sorry, sir. This is a private club.”

  “Who do I see about a membership?”

  “Membership is for Bulvanians only.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He was feeling more and more like a pariah. Marge had gotten into the place somehow, but how? When he asked her about it, she expressed surprise. “I’ve never had a bit of trouble getting in.”

  And so it was back up to the roof, aim the telephoto, jerk.

  The only sexual encounter he had was with a plump German tourist who thought he was in Romania and was looking for Dracula’s castle. The guy wasn’t especially attractive, but Logan put on his best Bela Lugosi accent and seduced him anyway, more out of frustration than from any real desire for him.

  Long weeks grew longer and longer. When Raymond and his party didn’t return after a month, even after two months, rumors started circulating. The king had been seduced by a French girl and was hopelessly infatuated with her. Or by an Italian boy. Or one of each. Logan didn’t care; he was desperate for something to happen. Anything.

  * * *

  Then he appeared. He. Him. The man. The one Logan had been dreaming of since puberty.

  There he was, out on Guardsmen’s Island. Logan had never seen him before; he must be a new recruit. Logan’s eye might have been welded to the lens; he stood at the camera for what seemed like hours, moving it left and right, adjusting the focus to follow the man.

  He was slender, and he moved with an easy grace that positively reeked of sensuality. The lines of his body were perfect, at least for Logan; every curve, every line spoke sex, passionate sex. The guy’s body was smooth, with just enough chest hair to define the line of his abs. His legs were trim and muscular. His hair was black and was cut in the latest style, quite modern, quite contemporary. His skin was pale, and his eyes were large and expressive, even from a distance.

  Large, expressive eyes! For an instant Logan asked himself if this could be Raymond, magically transformed by Paris, like Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. But no, no transformation could be that complete that quickly.

  So he watched. The guy wasn’t naked but wore the briefest bikini. The bulge at his crotch was huge; it spoke volumes about what Logan could expect when they finally met—expect or at least hope for.

  This was the man, the man. Everything about him, his looks, his body, his movements, excited Logan beyond anything he’d ever known before. He moved among the other guards with a casual ease, never joining in their copulations and contortions yet never seeming to mind them. He didn’t exactly ignore the sex all around him—he smiled and even paused to watch now and then—but he never joined in. For an awful moment Logan found himself wondering if the guy could be straight. Horrible thought. But no, he had to be gay, he had to be, he had to be.

  Standing at his camera, Logan was tempted to jerk off again, just watching the guy. His cock was stiff—erect and ready for action. But no; masturbation wouldn’t do anymore. This was the man of his dreams. Guards or no guards, island or no island, ban or no ban, he had to meet this guy. He simply, absolutely had to.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The sky was clouding up and a stiff wind began to blow. Just as Logan was about to go down from this rooftop and make another try at landing on the island, he saw the guards there packing up their things, making ready to leave. They were obviously expecting a storm. For a moment he was sorely disappointed.

  Then it dawned on him that this simplified things. Instead of rowing out to the island again, he could simply walk the few blocks to the palace and the barracks. There would be guards on duty, and they probably wouldn’t let him in again, but he had to try.

  By the time he changed and freshened himself up it was raining heavily. He worried over what to wear and finally settled on something dressy but casual, a polo shirt, khakis and loafers. There was a bright stroke of lightning foll
owed by a deep rumble of thunder. Logan jumped. He wouldn’t normally go out in a thunderstorm, but today was different, special. The man of his dreams was waiting… He took a big, oversized umbrella and headed to the palace.

  * * *

  The rain started slowly but in no time it was a raging storm. Large, heavy raindrops fell, mixed with hailstones. Driving wind turned Logan’s umbrella inside out; he tried to fix it, but it was no use, and he tossed it into a trashcan. There were violent flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder. They made Logan anxious—he had never liked thunder—and he rushed to reach the palace.

  At the entrance two guards were stationed, as usual. They were soaked to the bone but stood stiffly, dutifully at attention as if the day were sunny and dry. When Logan approached, one of them waved him into the courtyard without saying a word. Another flash of lightning, and he quickened his pace. In no time at all he reached the Frederick II barracks. Two more guards gestured that he should go inside. He did so, not stopping to wonder why he was suddenly welcome, and grateful as hell to be out of the rain.

  Once he caught his breath and found his bearings he looked around. A few guardsmen were visible in the halls, coming here or going there. None of them took any notice of him.

  Then, at the far end of a long hallway, he spotted him. Him. The man, the one he had to see, to meet, to make love to. As Logan watched, and just as he was about to call out to the guy, he disappeared through a door and was gone. Damn. He rushed down the hallway, trying to remember for sure which door he had gone into. But there were a half dozen of them, and there was no telling which was the right one.

  “Logan!”

  The voice calling him made him turn. Alex was there, dressed casually and smiling broadly. He was back near the entrance; Logan joined him.

  “You’re back!”

  He looked Logan up and down, then grinned. “My steel-trap mind tells me you got caught in the rain.”