Sword and Sandal

by Roland Graeme

  “Very nice,” he said, examining my crotch, almost in the way a doctor might, with the same clinical detachment. “Very sexy.”

  “Very tired and sleepy,” I suggested, wryly. “That’s why what you’re looking at is limp. And it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” (This was true. We often visited each other on the set, in our dressing rooms; and on such occasions we weren’t at all shy about being briefly naked in front of each other.) “Am I to take it that the rumors about you are true?”

  “What have you heard?”

  I repeated some of the gossip I’ve heard, not only about Alain, but about his wife.

  He laughed.

  “Well, so far you haven’t told me anything which I can deny,” he said.

  “Apparently, you lead a pretty wild sex life.”

  “Sex is sex. It’s a form of recreation. And a sure cure for boredom and stress. I enjoy it. Don’t you?”

  “I’ve been known to indulge,” I admitted.

  “Let’s talk about you for a moment. We’ve now worked together on two films, back to back. Under such circumstances, an actor gets to know another actor rather well. Both of these shoots have actually gone rather well. You’ve demonstrated a certain degree of competence.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment. I expect competence from the people I work with. I hope for more. I’m usually disappointed. You’ve been given first a small part, and then a lead role, and so far you haven’t ‘fucked it up,’ as you Americans say. That’s good. But don’t get a swelled head.”

  “I’ve tried not to. I know I have a hell of a lot of learn.”

  “That’s true. You do have a great deal to learn—about this profession, and about life.”

  “Maybe you can teach me,” I suggested, boldly. “You being such a sophisticated, experienced, jaded older man, and all,” I teased him. “But, seriously, Alain—I’ve already learned from you. I’m sure I could learn much more.”

  “I hope we’ll work together again, and soon. There’s every possibility that we will. For some reason, the Italians keep offering me parts in these ‘gladiator’ films.”

  “They do that because you’re good.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so. I suspect the real reason is because I’m accommodating. When it comes to work, I’m not a snob. I’ll do anything. I’ll free-lance like any whore, as I always say.”

  “I wish you were going to be in this third picture of mine. The western.”

  “Typecasting,” Alain said, matter-of-factly. “I’d be wrong for that sort of thing. Can you see me in boots and spurs, with a pistol slung from a belt on my hip?”

  “As a matter of fact—I can. I think you’d look hot in that sort of a getup.”

  “Keep flattering me,” he teased me. “Go right on massaging that fragile ego of mine. You may end up entertaining some company in that bed, tonight, after all.”

  I patted the mattress next to me. “Feel free to get right in here with me.”

  “Tempting. But some things, I do like to take slowly. Delayed gratification, you know? I’m strange that way. It’s getting late. Let’s stop kidding around with each other, shall we, and have a serious talk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not going back home to Paris, not right away. I have to stop off at Marseilles, first. I’ll be there for those two weeks I mentioned. I have to give six performances of Ruy Blas.”

  “What’s a Ruy Blas?” I asked, in all innocence.

  “It’s a very famous play by Victor Hugo.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ve never heard of it. I do know who Victor Hugo was, though. He wrote The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

  Alain grimaced. “That’s what you call it in English. The original title is Notre Dame de Paris.”

  “I stand corrected. I’m not entirely illiterate, you know. What role do you play?”

  “The title role, of course.”

  “Oh, of course. Nothing less for the great Alain Camargue.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic. I may condescend to appear in such things as The Whore of Babylon from time to time, to pay the rent. But back home in France, I do have a certain reputation as a serious actor. No matter what our mutual friend Ludovico Morelli may say to the contrary. Now, let’s be serious again for a moment,” Alain went on, in an intimate, coaxing tone of voice. “I won’t be staying in a hotel in Marseilles. I’ll be staying at a friend’s house. He’s gay—”

  “An ex-lover of yours?” I guessed.

  “He’s an old friend with whom I still occasionally have sex. There’s nothing ‘ex’ about it. My relationships with my friends, and, yes, with my lovers—they tend to be ongoing. Robert—that’s his name—he has a nice house, extremely comfortable. He’s always glad to put me up, whenever I happen to be in Marseilles for a visit, or to work. He’s the perfect host, very hospitable, very easy to get along with, and he won’t mind if I bring along … well, a friend. A protégé, so to speak. In fact, he’s already told me he’d be delighted to put you up, as well. Come with me, Gino,” Alain pleaded. “It’ll be a good break for you, a little vacation. And it won’t cost you a thing. My treat.”

  “It does sound nice.”

  “It will be nice. I’ll make it my business to guarantee that you’ll have a good time. You must understand, though—I’ll be working. The first few days, I’ll be busy rehearsing the play. Although it shouldn’t take much time and effort to throw that old warhorse onto the stage. And then, of course, in the evenings, I’ll be performing. You’ll be on your own, then. Unless, of course, you care to see the play, at least once,” Alain added, dismissively. “I get two free tickets for each performance, which I can give away. That’s in my contract. But I don’t think you’ll be bored. Marseilles is a beautiful city, which has a lot to offer. And I’ll spend all of my free time with you—to the extent that you feel like putting up with me.”

  It was odd. Alain, whom I’d always thought of up until then as an incredibly sophisticated, self-confident man, was suddenly behaving almost shyly with me—as though he felt insecure in my presence. As though he had to woo me.

  I hastened to reassure him. “I’m sure—with you, in your company—I’d never be bored,” I said, awkwardly, perhaps; but with warmth. “Yes, I’ll come. For sure.”

  He seemed relieved—and pleased. “We’ll have ourselves some fun. I can promise you that.”

  “In Marseilles—in your friend Robert’s house—are we going to be sharing a bedroom? A bed?”

  “Yes. Of course … two men can share a bed chastely. Platonically. If they want to.” Once again, Alain seemed unsure of himself. He was fumbling for words. I rather enjoyed his discomfort.

  “Not in my experience,” I assured him. “In fact—if I sleep with a guy, I insist on having sex with him. I’m going to expect you to put out.” I tried to look and sound as offhand about it as possible.

  “I’ll make love to you,” Alain vowed, with real fervor. “Every night.”

  “I’m looking forward to that, my man. And I intend to hold you to it.”

  “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”

  “We don’t have to wait until then,” I suggested, optimistically. “Come on, Alain. Take off your clothes, turn out that light, and get here in bed with me.”

  “Ah, but you’re tired. You’re sleepy. I can tell. And—‘delayed gratification,’ as I said. Let’s wait. It’ll be better that way, I promise you.”

  “You’re a goddamn prick teaser, Alain.”

  “I beg to differ. I have every intention of satisfying you—eventually. And thoroughly.”

  “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I demanded.

  “Stay there in bed and go to sleep. Dream of me. Allow your anticipation to build. I’ll let myself out.”

  “Don’t I at least get a goodnight kiss?” I asked.

  “Certainly.” Alain leaned over the bed—and he kissed me chastely on the cheek.

  �
��Not like that,” I complained. “I want a real kiss.”

  “Oh, so you’re going to be one of those demanding types, are you?”

  “Very demanding. You’ve been warned, fucker.”

  He kissed me on the mouth, this time. We took our time about it, enjoying the contact of our lips. It was quite a stimulating kiss, and it was nicely cognac-flavored. Our mutual gratification might not have been delayed for long, had not Alain broken the kiss and stood up.

  He ruffled my hair.

  “Goodnight,” he whispered.

  “Goodnight.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll have breakfast together. We’ll make our travel plans then.”

  “All right.”

  He left my room, closing the door behind him, and I turned off the bedside lamp and went to sleep.

  I was no longer quite the naïve youngster from New Jersey. I knew that accepting Alain’s invitation to go to Marseilles with him was tantamount to agreeing to become his lover. I was willing. Hell, I was more than willing; I was downright eager!

  I was already in love with Alain. Spending those two weeks in his company only reinforced my feelings for him. We were already colleagues, and friends. Now, I learned to know him better—more intimately.

  People have the idea that great artists are tortured individuals who spend their time brooding in melancholy introspection. But Alain, who in my opinion was definitely a great artist, was nothing like that. When he wasn’t performing, he was a perfectly ordinary, healthy, charming, and uncomplicated guy.

  He was genuinely bisexual, with a preference for men—at least when it was a question of sexual satisfaction, pure and simple. Alain loved his wife and children. As he remarked to me once, he had “sworn off girls”—i.e., he was trying his best not to cheat on his wife with other women. He didn’t think that his affairs with men really constituted infidelity. They were divertissements, mere diversions, as he put it. His wife, whom I later met, was a charming woman. She understood her husband and accepted his proclivities. All she asked was that his male lovers were discreet, and that they posed no real threat to her.

  If I may be so immodest, I was made to play the part of a married man’s boyfriend. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I loved Alain, in the way that one man can truly love another man who’s his friend. And I really enjoyed having sex with him. But I wasn’t about to become a home wrecker. I had no illusions that Alain was going to abandon his family and run off somewhere with me. Our relationship was what it was, and we were both satisfied with it.

  We traveled to France together. Because I had to pack, check out of my hotel, and make a few other arrangements, we caught an evening train, later than the one Alain had originally intended to take.

  I liked Marseilles. Although it was a large city, and a major Mediterranean seaport, it had a relaxed, easy-going quality to it. There was a lot to see. And the climate was perfect.

  Alain’s friend, Robert, was a handsome Frenchman, lively and a bit of a chatterbox. He welcomed me as though we were old friends. Alain and I would share the guest bedroom. At first, I was afraid it might be a little awkward, shacking up together under the roof of a man with whom Alain already had a sexual history. But Robert was a model of discretion, and a perfect host. He saw to our needs and kept us entertained, but he also let us have our privacy.

  Alain and I made love for the first time, the night we arrived.

  We’d unpacked, and then we unwound after our trip, sitting in Robert’s living room with drinks in our hands. Robert made dinner, and refused our offers to help. He was a good cook.

  “Maybe Gino and I will make an early night of it, if you don’t mind,” Alain suggested to Robert, later.

  “Oh, I don’t mind at all. I may turn in soon, myself. Tired from your trip, are you?”

  “Exhausted,” Alain declared—but for once, he wasn’t a very convincing actor. Both Robert and I could tell he was lying.

  “But not too exhausted, I bet,” Robert retorted.

  He and Alain started smirking at each other like a couple of oversexed schoolboys. I was mildly embarrassed. Were Alain and I that obvious about our lust for each other?

  We kissed our host goodnight, and then we retired to the guest bedroom—where we undressed with unseemly haste.

  “We’d better be careful not to make too much noise,” I cautioned Alain, as he turned down the bed. “We don’t want to bother Robert.”

  “Trust me, we won’t. He’s got one of those fancy shortwave receivers beside his bed. He always listens to it at night, usually with headphones on. Sometimes he falls asleep with the radio still on. He’s even listened to it, with those damn headphones on, while we’ve made love.”

  “You’re exaggerating, surely,” I protested.

  “Not by much.” Nude, Alain climbed onto the waiting bed. “Every time Robert and I have had sex in his room, it’s been a threesome. Me, him, and the radio announcer. Now come here,” he urged. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

  “So have I.”

  He lay there with his hands relaxed at his sides, displaying his hard, strong body, with his cock standing out rigid. I thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

  I joined him on the bed.

  I lay stretched out on top of him. With our arms around each other, we caressed each other, gently and tenderly at first, exploring each other’s bodies. But we quickly became excited. Our cocks sprang into erection. Trapped between our bellies, they throbbed away, insistently, as though they possessed consciousness and were calling attention to themselves. Our fondling of each other’s flesh became more urgent, more aggressive.

  And, all this while, we were deep-kissing, probing each other’s mouths with our tongues. Kissing so passionately, in fact, so uninterruptedly, that we both became short of breath.

  As delightful as this extended foreplay was, I wanted—no, I desperately needed—some real sex.

  “I want to suck you,” I pleaded. “I want to suck your cock, and I want you to come in my mouth.”

  “That sounds fine to me. But I don’t want to be selfish. I want you to have your pleasure, too. I want to suck you, too—”

  “Later,” I insisted. I was in the grip of an absolute oral fever. “You can suck mine later, all you want. But right now, I’m the one who’s going to be selfish. I have to suck you off, or I’ll go crazy wanting to. And believe me, it’s going to be a pleasure. For both of us!”

  He lay back and let me blow him.

  I was so hot for his cock that, although my own erection was literally painful in its extreme rigidity, I ignored it, for the time being. I didn’t jerk myself, as I often did with other sex partners while administering a blow job. No, I wanted to concentrate my full, undivided attention on Alain’s penis. I sucked him so voraciously that I began to feel light-headed, because I was short of breath.

  “I’m going to come soon,” Alain warned me, like the gentleman he was. “If you’re sure you want to swallow it—?”

  I grunted fiercely around the cockshaft which was plugging my mouth. It was my way of assuring Alain that I not only wanted to swallow his cum—I’d be bitterly disappointed if he denied me that pleasure.

  “Soon,” he repeated, in a hoarse gasp. “Oh, very soon! You’d better get ready.”

  Ready? I was on full oral alert, so to speak!

  Alain’s hand was now on the back of my neck, gripping it hard. “Bring me off,” he pleaded, in a soft, silken voice. I heard in it that meekness which many men suddenly acquire, just before the ejaculate, when they’re at their most vulnerable. “Bring me off, oh, please! With your mouth, Gino. Your sweet, hot mouth. Yes, that’s right. Only … suck it harder … harder. Ah! Ah, mon Dieu!”

  I was moving my head up and down, afraid that with every downward movement I might gag on his bulk.

  “Take it all,” he coaxed me. “All the way down.” Then, after a swift intake of breath, he cried out, “Oh, God! I’m there! I’m coming! Take it
… take it all!”

  He forced my head down hard, and he discharged his semen into my throat. What a load! It felt as thick as cream, and the taste was distinctive—and wonderful! Even after he’d finished coming, he held me down on him for what seemed like a long time; and when he finally did loosen his grip, I came up, gasping for breath. I fell back heavily onto the bed, beside him, breathing as desperately as a swimmer who has surfaced after being underwater for too long.

  He embraced and kissed me.

  “It’s incredible, that a man as beautiful as you can suck cock so well,” he told me.

  “That’s an odd thing to say.”

  He laughed. “Remember, I’m a little older than you, and a lot more experienced. Take my word for it. As a general rule of thumb, the more handsome a guy is, and the better his body—the more likely he is to have been spoiled. He’s used to being admired and pursued. In bed, he expects to just lie there and let the other guy do all the work. If he’s good-looking enough, he can get away with it. But some of the hottest, most satisfactory sex I’ve had has been with men who were—well, homely. Often, they’re willing to put more effort into it. I’m delighted to see that you’re one of those exceptions that proves the rule. You’re gorgeous—and sexy.”

  I basked in his praise, although I thought I ought to make some token gesture of modesty. “All this, on the basis of only one blow job,” I pointed out. “Maybe your conclusions about me are premature.”

  “I’m ready to put them to further testing. Now it’s my turn. Lie back. Let me suck you.”

  He was good at it, as I’d predicted he would be. His theory, about really attractive men being selfish and disappointing in bed, wasn’t being confirmed, so far that night.

  I hoped that Robert, our host, was indeed lying in bed listening to his radio with the headphones on; or, if he’d already gone to sleep, that he was a heavy sleeper. Because I couldn’t stop myself from making a lot of noise, while Alain blew me. My groans and exclamations of sheer sexual delight sounded loud to my own ears, try though I did to stifle them.