The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Federico looked at the picture and went pale. He turned to his friend.

  “Is it a fantasy of yours?” he asked.

  Trevor made a face, almost repressing a smile, not that he had any reason to be cheerful. He looked at Lisa and felt the sudden urge to slap her around, and was sorry he had not done so earlier.

  “No, it’s her fantasy,” he said, and walked away.

  I’ve been in London one week. Maxim has found me a place to stay and a job so that I can pay the rent.

  I try and believe that London is just another stage on the road, another step in my waltz with the cosmos and not the ideal place to drop my anchor. Because there is something about this city that fascinates me, but at the same time also mines my spirit and slows my concentration.

  Maybe London happens to be the capital of the Republic of Dreams. Here, every street is like a trick of the mind behind which hides a blind alley.

  This city is a wonderful mess; first he leads me to seek the impossible and then it hurts me because I cannot grasp it.

  I’m in London to learn the writer’s trade. But for now, I work as a waitress.

  I keep on telling myself I must be patient, that things will be better tomorrow, but once again it’s all a terrible mess.

  The worst thing of all is that I had never dreamed of becoming a writer, even when I was a child. Then, all I wanted to be was an astronaut.

  4

  A woman’s body can be drawn or framed, but it always retains its own standards of individual beauty. The beauty Mauro sought to explore had first crossed his path just after his twelfth birthday when his mother had bought him his first camera, a Kodak Instamatic. The Kodak had quickly become his favourite toy, a toy which had gradually become a hobby and later a genuine vocation. He was self-taught, learning all he could through his own means, and was proud of the fact. He worked hard and was always on the move, as travel was at the root of his photographic education. He’d met Trevor in Toronto and managed to convince him to follow him back to Italy to set up a photographic and art studio where they could both confront the beauty of women against the beauty of Rome’s ancient ruins.

  But the project never saw the light of day.

  Caught between the thousand or so problems of his divorce and a dangerous attraction to alcohol, the Canadian man had just proved unable to get his act together. Mauro had never forgiven him. He’d abandoned him there in Italy, surrounded by his paranoia, and had flown to London, a city he thought would be ideal to bring his own dreams to life

  And then the whole world had collapsed around him, as fate had intervened, and he was now in a mess, with the devil on his tail and desperately in need of money.

  Mauro had initially thought of packing up and leaving. It was a strong temptation to go home, see his parents again.

  He instinctively knew this was a time for reflection. What he basically needed was some sort of order in his life, to sort things out. Maybe some place where he could eat whenever he wished, sleep eight hours a night without others making a fuss, without squatters in all corners.

  He wanted to stay warm beneath the old flannel bed cover. He wanted to smell espresso coffee and see a breakfast table all made up and ready.

  Mauro also desired many other things. Harmony. Equilibrium. And a form of serenity he had sought for a long time now and could somehow not seize. And assuredly not here in the bleakness of Holloway. Nor between these four old walls.

  Returning home was an alluring thought, but going back as a loser was another kettle of fish altogether. For Mauro it would mean once again having to face the stern gaze of his father, the envious disapproval, the criticism.

  He knew that his old man expected this. He knew the bastard would laugh out aloud about his travails and dreams.

  Mauro’s father was a simple man. He wasn’t an artist, had never worked in Switzerland, nor was he a sculptor.

  Mauro had once invented those lies in order to be noticed, to carve himself an aura of some sort. But Mauro’s father understood nothing about art.

  He was a butcher. He spent his whole days between dead cows and pigs, and was satisfied with his lot, because it was real work, honest and reliable. A job his son had total contempt for.

  Many years before, the old man had once brought Mauro to the back of the shop in a vain attempt to teach him about his trade. Under Mauro’s firm gaze, he had begun skilfully cleaning up a lamb for the slaughter, even though the animal was struggling wildly.

  “It’s not enough to wear a set of overalls. You must also cover your face and your neck in case they bite you, which would be very painful,” he explained.

  Mauro nodded and pretended to understand. But he just couldn’t fathom the reason for such dedication, and watched the whole scene with disgust, until the time came for him to try.

  “Be brave, there’s nothing to afraid about. Hunger is frightening. But once you’ve learned a trade you’ll never be hungry again.”

  His father was right. Maybe he should have listened to him better. And now, he had drifted off that straight and narrow road and was sorry for himself like a sobbing woman. And without even being aware of it, he was fleeing from one part of the world to another. Always further from home. Always further from a way of life he could neither understand or love.

  London, Manchester, Glasgow: Mauro was acquainted with a lot of people and was ready to take on any job to widen the distance between the life he had chosen and the one his father would have wanted for him. So when a little-known stroke magazine asked him to work in the hardcore field, Mauro set his pride aside and accepted.

  Porno shoot.

  Group sex full of thrusting and violence.

  Porno shoot.

  Four whores being mounted by a black stud.

  “It’s not a problem,” Mauro had said.

  The next day as he reported for the job, his liver hurt.

  The premises had been furnished in superficial luxury. The furniture and varied knick knacks were in ersatz hi-tech style long overtaken by the whims of fashion.

  Such unnecessary details, he thought as they all knew the only place they would be focusing on would be the bed. The bed was to be the main protagonist in this comedy, not all the shoddy details.

  Mauro had slowly set out all his equipment, although he was aware that the others were impatient to get on with things. It was almost as if all they wanted was to have it all done with quickly so they could all go home.

  Mauro no longer had a place of his own and was in no hurry. The four heavily made-up young women were already sprawled across the bed. Mauro ordered them to undress and spread their legs across the bed cover for some test shots. In reality he had no genuine need for these, but it was the first time he had been involved in a job like this and he needed more time to get the hang of things.

  To find the right light? No. Maybe to get used to their shaven and open cunts, and be able to take these damn photos without being physically affected himself.

  Mauro was nervous. Both nervous and also excited by what he could see. His erection was pressing against the tight zip of his leather trousers, as he suggested the black man strip, hoping that the sight of a naked man would temper his spirits.

  Off came the shirt and tie, and then trousers and underpants. Yes, he could keep his gold chains on. A black naked stallion, with gold chains, quite a sight! Above all, his cock was huge. And the black guy’s penis was thick and hard, as if an instant confirmation of the urban legend about black men’s sexual superiority. This, together with the minimalist environment of the set and the pale skin of his future preys on the bed, brought the whole scene to life, in Mauro’s mind.

  And the fucking was like a cocktail of movement and choreography. So much more different and arousing than the spineless groping and vulgarity he had first seen in the second-rate Italian porn films of his youth, featuring Moana, Luana and company.

  The black man had no need to pretend; he knew he was the one in charge. And the way he held ope
n the women’s gaping cunts just as he was about to impale them with his monstrous cock was all the evidence needed. He didn’t penetrate them, he broke them open, and as ever with a wide smile and gleaming white teeth.

  Mauro’s hands were sweaty. Hypnotized by the spectacle he had stopped taking photographs and, right now, just watched the action, and the black guy’s radiant smile, the game of submission and power that was unfolding in front of his eyes. And the black man looked back at him. With a sneer across his face, he muttered something to Mauro, it sounded like, “Just do your damn job, the Italian . . .”, and his smile broke out again. His perfectly aligned teeth lit up his dark face. Mauro on the other hand was growing even paler. He thought he was a professional and now he was just some poor guy from the provinces doing a shitty job to earn enough to buy himself a flight back to Italy.

  Return to Italy. Why not?

  Mauro still had some contacts there. Friendships which could still prove useful.

  Trevor’s exhibition could well be the right occasion. The Canadian was a generous man; he would surely lend him some money, and could maybe offer him some sort of decent job like preparing the catalogue for his next show.

  Mauro felt it would be worth trying. It was just that he wasn’t quite ready to confront his father in sack cloth and ashes and having to apologize.

  In London, I have no regular boyfriend.

  From time to time I go with a younger man, probably the poorest of all those I serve at the restaurant. It’s not a complicated relationship, free of future commitments which might tie me down. I don’t even know what he does for a living, it’s of no matter to me. All I do is watch his taut muscles, his sculpted arms when he undresses. Naked, he is splendid. Next to him I know I look so plain.

  5

  Trevor had agreed to meet Mauro in a small café not far from the art gallery. The decor was all green marble, from ceiling to floor, absorbing the heat of the sun outside and muffling the sound of steps.

  “New shoes?” Mauro asked.

  “How did you guess?”

  The two sat down at a table facing the street. The sound of the traffic outside reached them, noisy but also familiar.

  “You look good,” Trevor said.

  “So so. I could be worse. To be honest, I’ve lost everything, my house, my clothes, all my prints and the photographic equipment which had cost me a small fortune. But I’m not about to call it a day.”

  “That’s a healthy attitude.”

  Mauro tried to smile, but he had to force himself. Trevor’s reassuring words didn’t help him feel any better. Starting all over again was too painful a thought, and he just couldn’t do so on his own.

  “I need your help, Trevor. I’m not asking for money, just help.”

  “Is that why you asked to see me?”

  “Yes,” Mauro confessed.

  Trevor remained silent, sipping his coffee and listening to the sound of the cars hooting away outside as they stewed in a traffic jam.

  “I’m not sure I can be of assistance,” Trevor finally said. “The exhibition has just come to an end and in a few days I am leaving for Canada.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I wanted to talk about,” Mauro interrupted him. There was a hopeful ray of light inside his eyes.

  “Let me go with you,” he continued. “In Canada we could do great things together.”

  “Are you serious about this?”

  “Definitely,” Mauro continued. “You and I together, like in the old days.”

  Trevor closed his eyes, as if reflecting about what his friend had just said. But when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was hard, almost full of bitterness, and Mauro had to hold his breath. Before he even realized what was happening, the other’s fist flew into his face, throwing him to the ground.

  A young woman at a nearby table screamed. Quickly various other customers came to Mauro’s rescue, helping him back onto his feet. He indicated to the others not to worry, that what had happened was unimportant, just as Trevor walked out of the bar.

  He now stood alone just outside the door, waiting for Mauro to join him. He had a black eye but it wasn’t too painful.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” he screamed. “They say I should call the police.”

  But Trevor had no wish to talk. He knew it was better to surrender to all this noise outside. Noise is an abstract concept, it has a thousand faces but weighs nothing. Words were like stones and Mauro kept on questioning him. What a hypocrite.

  “I know you fucked my wife,” Trevor said. And the quietness of his voice could not conceal his anger. Some words are heavier than others.

  A second punch caught Mauro on the nose.

  I don’t like love stories. And I don’t like poetry. Poets are stupid creatures who insist in ordering life into rhymes and embellishing it. But life is nowhere as beautiful as they want to make you think it is.

  Life is like prose: it does not bother itself with nobility. It feeds on your fragility, it takes all your mistakes into account and throws them back in your face when you least expect it.

  My own life is no exception. It’s both foul and wild, as my comfort grows and feeds me, until I am full. Life has the face of a cannibal.

  6

  Trevor pulled a cigarette out of the packet.

  This is the last one and then I’m giving up, he thought to himself. And then changed his mind. He had never been particularly concerned about his health, so why do so now? He knew the risks as his mother had died of cancer. But he was not afraid of death. It was like an old friend, and when the time came he would be ready to face it. The thought of dying did not disturb him. The thought of arriving at whatever gates with his clothes and hair reeking of tobacco smoke had a definite sense of irony.

  But his soul already reeked of memories and things past, to the point of pain.

  It was almost summer but Trevor missed the snow. White snow surrounding houses and filling the roads. Snow covering Kate’s face and concealing her features.

  Kate, his wife. A woman who had once betrayed him and that he could not yet find in himself to forgive.

  Trevor felt angry that he had not seen any snow for over a year now. Which was also the last occasion he had seen Kate and the child.

  He really had to stop thinking about her, and all the days they had once spent together. As he still did every damn hour of the day!

  Trevor had met Kate in a small art gallery. She was there to acquire a painting and Trevor could not help himself observing her, wondering why she had chosen that particular image. Even more so here, in an area the tourist guides to Toronto seldom listed. But she didn’t look like a tourist, more like a regular from Trevor’s circle of friends. Trevor’s acquaintances were mostly painters too, the sort of artists who had to take on two and sometimes three jobs just to afford the canvas and brushes.

  Kate, on the other hand, did not appear to have any financial problems. In fact, she had acquired a painting. One of his. But why that one? It was a picture of two lovers in embrace, a strong, sensual image.

  Sexual.

  She didn’t seem to be that sort of woman. There was a severe, almost aristocratic demeanour about her, and an arrogant and determined look in her eyes which fascinated Trevor.

  It was as if Kate could read his mind.

  “I like it because I enjoy love stories,” she said. “And all love stories have a strong erotic charge.”

  “And this one does?” Trevor teased her.

  Kate blushed imperceptibly.

  “I just love this,” she explained. And there was a smoothness in her voice, enough to have Trevor fantasising about the two of them in a bed, naked and clutching each other, like the lovers in the painting.

  Trevor craved to hear those words of hers again, but in private, whispered to him as he caressed her breasts and stomach.

  Kate had somehow recognised his lust.

  She accepted Trevor’s invitation and followed him to his flat.

  She slow
ly took her clothes off and went to lie on the bed. He watched her. He touched her with his fingers, finding exquisite pleasure in this initial contact. He delicately slid his hand between her thighs. She was wet, but it was a few more minutes before Trevor was free to slip his fingers inside her, extracting a soft moan out of her.

  “I love it. I love it. Do it. Do it.”

  Trevor moved on top of her. He pulled her up by the waist and entered her, taking no precautions. This was no longer the 80s, when nights had been wild and daring, but Trevor was still usually careful. With Kate he had no compunction mounting her raw.

  He wanted to feel her. He wanted to fill her to the brim, and own her body and soul.

  Kate was never more beautiful, so much his, than in that moment. She had now forsaken her pride and had given herself to him fully.

  Trevor knew he now owned Kate and he finally complied with her wish. “Faster and harder,” she begged him.

  Trevor fulfilled her request with animal rage. He took her face between his hands and kissed her. Swallowing her cries, as if he were afraid to let them escape through the apartment’s windows.

  “I did not want it to happen . . . Not this way,” Kate said, rising from the bed. But Trevor thought differently. This was surely the way it should happen, both matter of fact and lustfully.

  “Don’t go. Stay.”

  Trevor’s request surprised Kate.

  But that’s how love ambushes you. It creeps up to your shoulders, and stabs you in the back, leaving you wounded and bleeding on the ground.

  To have punched that bastard Mauro in the face wasn’t enough to heal the wound. It was no more than the foolish reaction of a child who’s had his toy stolen by another. But that toy had been his and Trevor could not accept having lost it. Even though he had been the one to push Kate into the arms of his friend, he was now the one seeking a divorce.