by The Weather Baker's Son [Dreamspinner, World of Love MM] (retail) (epub)
Eventually to pass time and find a place to sit, he entered a movie theater showing several films. He had paid no special attention to what movie was actually playing, and he feverishly sat down in the darkened room and stared forward, fidgeting in his seat, lost in his thoughts. It was then he felt pressure on his right knee, which caught his breath and made him stare forward, completely immobile. Again he felt pressure, and he gasped slightly as he realized another man’s knee was pressing against his own. He remained paralyzed; any boldness had disappeared from him. This was the wrong time and the wrong place for this to be happening to him, he thought. He wanted Gaston.
It is the right time! screamed back his youthful hormones. He turned his head very slightly; he could see little of the man beside him but was able to perceive that he had a toothy grin. The man continued to press his leg against his own in a signal of sexual connection. Peter had heard of such encounters and might have been game for one in the past, but now how could he?
He was about to push himself out of his seat, but at that moment he felt hands on his groin as the man undid his pants and zipper. Peter’s breath caught. All notions of rushing away vanished as sweat covered his brow and he felt his now stiff cock being released from his pants. Raging with need he continued to sit immobile while he felt the leaning man’s mouth take him and methodically move up and down. Release was almost instantaneous for Peter, and embarrassedly he realized he was panting loudly in the theater and looked furtively around himself as the man leaned back into his own seat. He realized there were few people in the theater. To his further shock he realized he had purposefully sat next to someone else when there were empty seats all around. His encounter had not been as unplanned as he thought. In his impassioned state, he had himself unconsciously sought out an encounter. He was not master of himself.
Peter zipped himself up and hurried out the back of the theater, past the billboards proclaiming in bold letters:
“Vintage film fest. Last Tango in Paris on show!”
Buddies
THAT SUNNY day in the afternoon, Gaston and Mario, his second cousin, were playing soccer with their school friends from the surrounding villages. The soccer field lay partway out of town, surrounded on three sides by meadows, which were often used as a quick path for those coming directly from the center of town, avoiding the lengthier twisting streets found in such old towns.
Earlier, on the way to play, the idyllic afternoon sun beating on them as they headed to the playing field through the meadows, Gaston reflected on how he and Mario had often played in these wild fields as children.
Mario was gazing forward while Gaston took furtive glances at his friend walking alongside him. They had been the best of friends since childhood. A troubled childhood for Mario, whose Italian father had left his French wife and young child, causing Mario’s mother, Sylvie, to seek work at the bakery, as she was Céleste’s cousin.
Sylvie specialized in making pastries and also made fancy cakes for special occasions, and she was widely sought out for her culinary and artistic skills. Thus the shop had become a combined bakery and pastry shop. Mario helped his mother but also occasionally filled in for Gaston at the bakery ovens when Gaston was sick or away at some obligation out of town. The boys each had a small room above the shop premises, with one french door each facing over the terrace, which overlooked the main street. Céleste—and Gaston’s father, Frédéric, before he died—lived on the ground floor of a house behind the shop, accessed through an adjoining walled courtyard, while Mario’s mother lived on the second floor of the house. Frédéric, being a baker on a Mediterranean cruise line out of Marseilles, had often been away while his wife kept up the shop. The spread of supermarkets in France had made it more difficult for some of the small-town bakeries to survive on their receipts alone, so Frédéric, with reluctance, had taken on the job on ship, returning two or more times to the shop each month for a few days between cruises. Thus the boys had from early on their own private domain above the shop and could easily get to the main house by way of the courtyard. In the absence of Frédéric’s kindly influence, they were each other’s most common male experience and were best of friends. This was even more so after Frédéric died when the boys were in their early teens.
Boys like forts, whether made of cardboard boxes, canvass, sheets, or otherwise, and presented with their own rooms from early on in a separate building, the terrace rooms became a much more substantial castle redoubt in their young imaginations, free of annoying calls from parents to keep the noise down. With their—at that time, new—puppy Padie, they spent many a late hour peering over the terrace wall into the street below, spying on passersby, giggling, imagining all sorts of adventures. A passing man dressed in gray in the darkness could be vividly transformed into a cape-bedecked musketeer. A passing woman and the beau whispering in her ear became conspirators out to poison the king.
This was especially a world of wonders for Mario. The new life he was brought to at the age of seven, when Gaston was already eight years old, was a sharp departure from the small apartment his mother and he had lived in in Marseilles, in a gritty, dangerous neighborhood. From this threatening city quarter of Marseilles Mario had been armed with a certain street-sense from early on—a sense that was not suited to the prevailing cheerful mood of his new tiny home. He also came mistrustful of most people, perceiving ulterior motives where none existed, as if the townsfolk were to be viewed no differently than the con artists on the streets of his old neighborhood. Gaston, despite his youth and despite Mario’s usual mistrustfulness, became the platonic object of Mario’s boyish affection from the time they first met, when Sylvie and Mario came to live at the bakery. Gaston was a much more quiet and introspective individual, perhaps due to the frequent absences of his father, and had suffered no physical hardships in the pretty little town. “Bookish” and “pensive” are descriptions that seem apt. He was the one who introduced Mario to the tales and legends of the troubadours and knights errant.
Gaston perceived Mario’s admiration from early on and was gratified by it. It was not something he had experienced with the other boys about town. Gaston had long been awkward in the presence of other boys. In spite of the easy life in the town, from a young age, he had felt emotional stirrings that set him apart. Stirrings that at the time when he first met Mario and before he had gone through puberty were not yet totally formed but caused him some alarm, for they did not seem to be universally shared or appreciated. There is something different about me, he had thought as a child, but the veiled whisperings by adults about all things sexual, especially different things, had left him anxious and suspicious of being too open. Now, almost a dozen years later, his anxiety had only increased as the full revelation of his difference unveiled itself with maturity, so much so that he had become more and more afraid of losing his special friendship with Mario, whose entry into manhood was undisturbed by such preoccupations.
Céleste, with her special insight into her customers’ emotional states, had long perceived a certain amount of emotional turbulence in her son. Yet as his inclinations were outside her normal range of knowledge, she remained confused as to the source of his troubles and could only keep a special watch over him, fearing too much maternal care might not be the best solution.
So, walking that day with Mario, after the soccer game, Gaston, Mario, and their teammates sauntered into the changing room, noisily throwing themselves on the benches, catching their breath after the exertion in the hot sun, cooling down under twirling ceiling fans. Mario always sat with Gaston and this day pulled off his running shoes and noted with an “Ouf!” the ripe smell that came from his sweaty socks.
When Mario finished undressing, he was bitten by a mischievous impulse. He glanced over at Gaston, who had also just removed his clothes for the shower. He playfully dangled one of his ripe socks in front of Gaston’s face, taunting him, wanting to see his reaction. Gaston grabbed at the sock, which Mario playfully pulled back before thrusting i
t forward once more, and so the game continued with Gaston grabbing outward while Mario pulled back. After this went on for a few moments, both guys, laughing and exhausted, headed toward the communal showers along one wall. Stopping short at a urinal comprised of one long trough, the friends stood having a leak, while other teammates came and went in various states of dress, to and from the showers and about the vast open room.
They had played together and grew to be almost like brothers and confidants. As boys are wont to do when little, they had on occasion laughed and pointed at each other’s naked parts when skinny-dipping or showering at a school camp. To Mario it was all just a passing maturing process, and his attentions turned inexorably to seeking out pictures of girls and undergoing his first crushes on them. Mario had grown into a handsome, muscular young man, among the top soccer players in town, and had already had a number of girlfriends. For Gaston, however, the desire to be naked with Mario ran deeper. It had not changed from an exciting and dangerous thing. Unlike Mario, who was just comfortable naked around the other guys in passing during normal activities, Gaston was interested in the event, wanted to prolong it, to seek it out. Indeed he contrived to arrange situations where the possibility of nudity might ensue: a suggestion for a swim in a secluded spot, a way to make the changing and showering process longer, opportunities to accidentally come into a room when Mario might be changing or bathing.
Gaston was not inexperienced with men. His reserved nature did not mean that he was new or oblivious to the pleasures of the flesh. After all he was a mature young man. But his encounters so far had been furtive ones, with strangers he met at gay bars in Avignon those rare times when he could get away alone or a chance encounter on the street of another place, encounters that were devoid of more than physical love. Up till now most such encounters had occurred in other towns and at the other person’s place. He was too withdrawn to come out in the small town he lived in as he cherished his friendships, feared their loss, and feared being judged not worthy.
So Gaston was delighted when Mario dangled his sock in front of him. He feigned anger and frustration to keep Mario egging him on. He could thus be with Mario in what for him was an intimate moment of undress, an intimate moment of friendship. At the urinal, he felt proud too to be standing naked next to his athletic, manly friend as they urinated—he felt one of the guys. But a secret terror would sometimes suddenly overwhelm him that everyone in the room was about to turn and stare at him, to point at him, to accuse him of being different. So this day panic once more suddenly dampened his joy, causing him to turn somewhat sideways away from his friend, panic further induced by the erotic remembrance of the night before and the unfinished encounter with Peter. Mario caught sight of this sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, and for an instant he noticed that Gaston’s cock was semistiff, and Gaston’s face was reddening. Gaston had not seen Mario’s glance, as in his shame he was facing slightly away. Mario said nothing. Acting as if nothing was happening, he naturally finished and headed to the showers. He felt troubled, however, troubled for his friend. Not angry, not shocked, but troubled.
Gaston showered very quickly that day, avoiding talking to his friend, wondering whether he had seen anything. He felt dirty, needed to get away, and stammering out a hurried good-bye and something about being needed back at the shop, he quickly left. He took the shortcut through the meadows between the playing field and the town, picking up his pace until he was in a quick run.
As he ran through the meadows, hundreds of tall red poppies, coquelicots, swayed in the breeze created by his onrush, slapping back against his calves gently like hundreds of red lips, caressing his passage in a sensuous undulating stream. In the distance, vibrant golden fields of rapeseed beckoned and upon his approach released their syrupy sweet fragrance under the crush of his passing feet, dozens of drunken bees flying away from his passage.
He was oblivious to these sensuous calls of nature. He felt ashamed, perverted.
Antique washhouses stood near the center of town, where three roads joined together to form a Y. They were from an earlier era when the town’s womenfolk would use the basins full of replenishing spring water to do the weekly wash of their family’s clothes. From time to time still they came to wash special items, bedsheets and the like, to clean and hang outdoors for that special freshness such old methods imparted, eschewing the modern conveniences they also had. Admittedly the exchange of gossip there with the other women was an attraction as well. Each of the three washhouses consisted of a back stone wall only, with the sides and front open and the old wooden roofs held up by Doric columns in front. A voluminous washbasin of stone, over four feet high, occupied most of each undercroft. In front of the washhouses at the very edge of the road stood a fountain, comprising a long basin with the mouths of two elegant lions’ faces side by side spurting out the same spring water. Visitors and townsfolk alike took joy in filling up containers at the fountain full of fresh spring water for use back home.
Gaston arrived in town, stopped short at the empty washhouses, and splashed the bracingly cold water on his face. He felt faint and the water cooled him down. He hoped to wash away his shame, but water could not do that. His hands were clenched tightly on the rim of the washbasin, and as he finally, quickly pulled away, his ring slipped silently off his finger and down to the bottom of the basin without his noticing. It was not till later that evening that Gaston realized his ring was missing, but he could only think that perhaps it was on the floor of the change room… and he felt no desire to go there to look for it!
Mario
MARIO WAS a good guy but often difficult to deal with. Even his mother Sylvie did not always understand his motivations. He had been closed to many people for many years. The one exception was Gaston. How different Gaston was to a boy who had no male influences except for those on the street! Gaston seemed to know so much for a baker’s son! Early on the candy-shop owners, Marguérite and Coralie, had stuffed books into Céleste’s and Gaston’s hands any time one or the other or both had shown up at the shop. Marguérite and Coralie had a love for literature and lent their favorite books to anyone who would take them once they were done with them. Gaston was a favorite recipient. Coralie and Marguérite would wink at each other knowingly in Gaston’s presence and press the latest books into his eager hands, especially books with lofty dreams to take one above the humdrum of daily life. This was a way to broaden the education of the local youth in such a small provincial town!
Mario’s influences before his move to the little town were choppy at best. Having to make it by the next street corner in Marseilles without getting beaten up by local ruffians had given him quite a different direction in life. He had had to use his wits and his fists even as the smallest of boys. A loud voice and defiant manner often saved him from a scrape, but if it came to one, he went in with gusto, as there could be no half measures in his neighborhood.
One day he was befriended, for lack of a better word, by an old man, a man who had a lurching gait brought on by years of alcohol abuse. At this time Mario had recently felt the loss of his father, who had taken off with a local lady about the streets. This made him briefly vulnerable. His childish mind was looking for a replacement. The new adult influence, however, was far from what one could consider a good one. Mario was treated kindly by him whenever their paths crossed on the street, the older man patting Mario on the head and giving him small change to buy himself treats. In this manner the drunkard wheedled his way into Mario’s affections. He eventually gained enough courage to invite Mario to a local store to buy him a juice and held his hand as he led him there, leaning down from time to time to say kind things and run his hand along the nape of Mario’s neck. At the store, however, the owner frowned as they entered, glancing back and forth from Mario to the old man. While the old guy was getting treats for Mario, the owner leaned over to Mario and said to him, “Is he a relative of yours?” This was overheard, and the old guy stumbled over saying, “This is my little n
ephew. I am taking him home with me.” Mario looked surprised by this lie. The old man then lurched back to a nearby counter and busied himself picking out candy. The shop owner correctly read Mario’s surprise and hurriedly came around his counter, grabbed Mario tightly by the arm, and pulled him to the shop door. Pushing him outside, he said, “You get home. Run! And don’t have anything to do with this guy again!” Frightened, Mario ran and ran until, out of breath, he came panting to his apartment block and hid around the side until he recovered for fear of alarming his mother.
For a week he had a bruise on his arm where the shopkeeper had quickly grabbed him. He rubbed his arm from time to time, staring at the mark which was an ever-present reminder that week of his close call. Mario was not sure exactly what had been avoided and what the intentions of the old man were, having no worldly experience of such adult matters yet. But he did know he had let his guard down and was ashamed that he stood paralyzed when the old man said he was his nephew. Mario thought he should have run on his own then, but he had stood, uncomprehending. Only the actions of the store owner had saved him.
He muttered to himself through clenched teeth, “No one’s going to get by me again. I’ll make anyone regret trying to make a fool out of me!”
So it was that tightly wrapped in several layers of mistrust, Mario came with his mother to live at the bakery.