Sword and Sandal

by Roland Graeme

  Alain wasn’t content simply to use his mouth on my cock. He worked his way lower, licking and sucking on my balls. And then he pushed his face down lower still, between my buttocks. He kissed my ass and penetrated it with his extended, stiffened tongue, rimming me expertly while he reached up blindly, grasped my hardened nipples between his fingertips, and pinched them without mercy. He held on to me like that, stimulating my nips, licking my ass. I thought I’d go insane with lust. I grabbed my dick in my fist and beat it, savagely, while he continued to work on my asshole and my tits.

  “Don’t come,” he insisted, interrupting his rimming only long enough to get out the words. “Not on yourself. Come in my mouth. Let me know when you’re ready.” Resuming his oral attack on my butthole, he licked around and inside my sphincter with a restless agility which made my flesh tingle, as though an electric charge had been applied to it. My anal pucker flexed and quivered, helplessly, as Alain went on penetrating it with his tongue.

  “Christ,” I blasphemed. “Christ crucified! I’m going to shoot, you son of a bitch! I’m going to come!”

  He pulled his tongue out of my ass and his face out from between my buttocks. Lifting his head, he seized my wrist and forced me to take my hand off my ready-to-erupt cock. He went down on me, swallowing every inch of my hard-on as easily as though his mouth and throat were elastic and capable of infinite expansion. He closed his lips around the very base of my tortured penis—and that application of a slight, extra pressure was all that was needed to bring me off. I exploded!

  He swallowed my load as greedily as I’d ingested his.

  We’d both ejaculated. You’ve have thought we’d be worn out, ready to settle down and get some sleep. But Alain wasn’t finished with me, yet. He still seemed as eager for sex as though what we’d done to each other so far had been no more than tantalizing foreplay.

  “Don’t move,” he told me, after we’d indulged in another brief, but delightful, round of hot, sweaty cuddling and kissing. “Stay there, your back.”

  I obeyed. I was stretched out on the bed, lying on my back, with my legs spread and my arms raised above my head, which rested on one of the pillows. My dick had actually gone semi-soft for a moment, in the aftermath of my orgasm. It lay slumped over the top of my thigh muscle, wet with a blend of Alain’s saliva and my semen. I felt so drained that I couldn’t imagine I’d be capable of getting hard again, let alone sustaining an erection or coming again. But, of course, Alain soon proved me wrong.

  He moved down onto the lower part of the bed, lifted my legs, and pushed my knees toward my chest. He moistened one of his fingers in his mouth and then he stuck the finger into my ass. This penetration felt even better than his tonguing of my anus had.

  He made a hook of his finger and he slowly twisted it around inside me, exploring the inside of my ass, making me moan in response. He inserted a second finger alongside the first, causing me a slight discomfort and a strong excitement, both at once. When he had teased me in this way for quite some time, playing aggressively with my ass, making me writhe and groan, he withdrew his fingers from my asshole and he immediately replaced them with his cock.

  He had incredible sexual recuperative powers, to say nothing of stamina. He was rock-hard, as though he’d hadn’t had sex for weeks. And, once he got his dick securely lodged, all the way inside my ass, he became insatiable.

  He fucked me fiercely for what seemed like a very long time, while I rested on my upper back on the mattress with my legs up on his shoulders. Just when I thought he was about to shoot his second load into me, he stopped his pumping movements, had me turn over onto my belly, and he started fucking me again, but now from the rear. Every time I thought he was ready to come, he would pause again and have us change positions. He tried every position in the book, methodically, one after another. I couldn’t decide which one I preferred. They all seemed equally exciting, when it was Alain’s cock that was inside me.

  “You’re mine, now,” was all that he said to me, at one point during our anal marathon. “Mine to fuck. Your hole is mine … mine to use, for my pleasure. Oh, you have such a sweet, tight ass. It’s so hot … it’s so good to fuck! I can’t get enough of it.”

  Truer words were never spoken.

  I don’t know how long he fucked me. It may have been for less than an hour, or it may have been for half the night. By the time he did climax again and he stopped screwing me, I’d shot off a second load, myself. My body had grown numb with post-orgasmic pleasure, and I was drifting toward unconsciousness.

  I slept, clasped in his arms.

  I was curious about the play in which Alain was appearing. Ruy Blas was an old nineteenth-century drama by Victor Hugo, little known outside of France. Alain would be doing the title role. I gathered that on its home ground, the play was considered a classic work of French literature. In anticipation of the performance, I bought a paperback edition of the play which I found in a bookstore in Marseilles. It had the original French on one page, and an English translation on the opposite page. Dutifully, I read through the whole damn thing.

  I thought it was the stupidest thing I’d ever read. I couldn’t believe that people would pay good money to stage this melodramatic nonsense, let alone come to see it performed. Of course, I didn’t tell Alain about my misgivings. I assured him that I couldn’t wait for opening night.

  While Alain was busy rehearsing, I had some free time on my hands. Robert worked in an office, where he was a manager. Whenever he was free, he took me out to lunch, and on other occasions, showed me around the city.

  I did attend one rehearsal of the play, at Alain’s invitation, sitting discreetly in the back of the auditorium. It was interesting to watch the director and the actors at work. After all, I was an actor, too (as I had to keep reminding myself!). I might learn something by observing other professionals. The play, though, still struck me as a total dud.

  Soon, it was opening night of the production. Courtesy of Alain’s complimentary tickets, Robert and I had excellent seats, down front in the auditorium, in one of the front rows of the orchestra.

  I’d expected the worst—several hours of unmitigated boredom. Boy, as I wrong!

  From his very first entrance, Alain had that audience in the palm of his hand. They applauded his first appearance onstage, interrupting the performance. Alain remained in character, not reacting to or acknowledging the applause. After the tumult died down, the actors continued.

  I’ve never seen anything like what followed in any theater, before or since. Alain was mesmerizing. At one point, he had a long soliloquy, the kind of highly rhetorical speech which the French call a tirade. Alain simply stepped forward toward the footlights, and, without gesticulating at all, he worked that audience as I have never seen or heard an actor work an audience, and he did it entirely with his facial expressions and his voice. At the climax of his monologue, when his voice rang out and filled the auditorium like that of an opera singer in full cry, the audience simply went wild—screaming, shouting, applauding, standing up to stomp their feet while clapping their hands. They also whistled—which, in European theaters, is a sign of approval, not an insult.

  After that, he truly had the audience hanging on his every word. At the end of the performance, during the curtain calls, there was mass hysteria. I stood there beside Robert and I yelled my fool head off right along with the rest, shouting myself hoarse.

  Robert and I went backstage, to Alain’s dressing room (he’d put us on the list of visitors he was willing to receive). He’d gotten out of his costume and he was sitting there in his bathrobe, removing his makeup. When I tried to congratulate him on his performance, I could hardly speak coherently. I just stood there and sort of babbled.

  Alain smiled at me. “It didn’t go too badly, all things considered,” he said, dismissively. “I’m famished. Let me get dressed, and then we’ll go somewhere and eat.”

  Our time in Marseilles passed all too quickly. I attended two more performances of the
play. (Alain gave the other tickets away to friends of his who lived in the city.) Alain and I made love every night. Inevitably, though, the last performance of Ruy Blas took place. The next day, we’d bid Robert farewell. Alain would go back to Paris, and I’d return to Rome.

  “I wish we could stay together,” I said, as we lay together in bed that night.

  “So do I. You know I do. But I’m not free,” Alain said. “I have a wife, and children.”

  “Yes, I’m perfectly aware of the fact,” I replied—perhaps just a bit sullenly.

  “I would never do anything to hurt them.”

  “And I wouldn’t expect you to any such thing.”

  “It isn’t easy to be my lover. Such a man—he must be willing to accept the fact that he will always come second, after my family.”

  “I’d be willing to accept that.”

  “Would you, Gino?”

  “I don’t ask for much from you. Do I?”

  “No, you don’t. If only I could give you more. All that you deserve.”

  “I do love you, Alain. Love me in return, to whatever extent that you can—that’s all that I want from you. Let me be some small part of your life. Fit me into your schedule, whenever you can. I promise you—that’ll be enough for me. I won’t ever complain, or ask you for more.”

  “Oh, my love,” he murmured.

  “Hold me. Hold me tight. Kiss me.”

  “If I do … well, we’re likely to get excited again. We’ll end up making love again.”

  “Would that be such a bad thing?”

  “No, quite the contrary. But so much sex—it’s going to wear me out,” he complained. “You’re too much for me. Too arousing.”

  “Good. I want to arouse you. I want to wear you out. I want to spoil you, for other men. I want you to think only of me, while we’re apart.”

  We made love. I gave Alain plenty, to remember me by. And in the years that followed, he kept coming back to me, for more. That was only the first of many vacations which we spent together. Our relationship lasted for decades—a very good, long run of performances, as we theatrical folk would say.

  Chapter Eleven: I, a Roman

  Permit me, once again, to backtrack for a moment.

  I was still in Italy when Tito Manlio was released. It may not have been a blockbuster, but it did well enough at the box office to make money for the studio, which was the important thing.

  Tito Manlio’s subsequent history was typical of films of the sword and sandal genre. It made the rounds, and it was dubbed in a surprising number of languages—not just English, and the major European languages such as French, Spanish, and German; but Dutch, Finnish, Turkish, Yugoslavian, and Arabic. I have a poster showing Eric swinging his sword, with all of the text printed in Japanese characters.

  In the United States, the movie eventually became demoted to the kind of fare television stations showed late at night for the benefit of insomniacs, or on Saturday mornings to attract younger viewers. These screenings often relied on old, worn prints that scarcely did justice to the original cinematography.

  Now it’s possible to see the film on cable TV or on DVD, in a high-quality new print struck from the original negative. Maybe I can’t be completely objective, but I think it holds up pretty well. It’s certainly action-packed, and Ludovico’s direction keeps things moving, with never a dull moment. Alain is terrific, and Marina looks great. Eric is good, especially in the fighting scenes, which predominate. There’s no reason to think that, had he chosen to pursue an acting career, he wouldn’t have been able to carve out a niche for himself.

  As for my performance—well, the first time I saw it, I cringed. Now that I’m an old man, I may be more tolerant of my younger self. When I saw the movie again recently, on DVD, I was more amused than appalled. I can see that I owed a lot to Alain’s coaching and Ludovico’s direction. But “the kid” worked hard, and he earned his paycheck.

  Having seen me in a small part, audiences were now curious about how I’d handle myself in a lead. They got their chance when, in due course, Il Gladiatore di Babilonia also hit the screen. The critics savaged it, as they had every right to. But, to my astonishment, audiences liked it. Overnight, it seemed, I became a (very) minor celebrity. I could now call myself an actor—without feeling that I was telling a terrible fib.

  I wouldn’t have been human if I hadn’t allowed my head to be turned, just a little.

  After all, there I was, a guy who’d grown up in New Jersey on the wrong side of the tracks. Now I was living in Italy and making movies. I was a celebrity, of sorts. People recognized me on the street, and they came up to me to ask for my autograph, or to ask me to pose for photos with them. I was invited to parties, especially those that had some connection to the film industry, such as openings.

  I wasn’t completely lacking in self-awareness. I knew that the movies I was making were entertainment, not great art. I also knew that, even though I’d worked hard to improve my acting skills, I wasn’t the kind of thespian who was likely to have a long career in the industry. To paraphrase Shakespeare, my physique made my fortune. Nobody was going to cast me as King Lear when I got old enough to look the part. Sooner or later some ambitious young kid would come along and be given his chance, and I’d be dethroned.

  I saved my money. I lived frugally, which wasn’t difficult in Italy at that time. I’d found an apartment, which was really a studio with a kitchenette—the kind of accommodation which the Italians call a casa albergo. It was inexpensive, which was a good thing, because it was customary in Rome for a tenant to have to cough up a deposit of three months’ rent in advance, in addition to the payment for the first month of occupancy. My only extravagance was an Alfa Romeo sports car. I bought it, second hand, and I loved it; but I felt so guilty about spending so much money all at once that I lived on nothing but pasta and bread for a month afterward.

  I was making the subtle, gradual transition from just another straniero (foreigner) to a true expatriate, living and working in Italy. Without being consciously aware of it, I was becoming Romanized. I couldn’t live without my cups of potent espresso, spaced out throughout my day. I got used to having pasta cooked al dente and a glass of robust red wine for lunch, and enjoying a siesta afterward. I dined late, stayed up even later, and I slept in on the following morning whenever possible.

  But sleeping late wasn’t also possible, especially when I had to report to the studio, or on location, at some ungodly hour before the first light of dawn.

  The third and final film called for in that first contract of mine was, as I’ve already told you, a spaghetti western. The genre was still a novelty at the time. Our opus was luridly titled Maledici Iddio e Muori, or Curse God and Die. Despite the fact—or perhaps because of the fact—that this was a direct quote from the bible (from the Book of Job, to be specific), it got the studio in trouble. In some quarters, the title was thought to be blasphemous, and as a result prints of the movie, and posters and other materials advertising it, exist in which the title has been changed to various tamer alternatives.

  It’s a weird movie. It’s incredibly violent, for one thing, with a high body count. Somebody’s being blown away by revolver or rifle fire in virtually every scene. (In retrospect, I wish I’d been in charge of the fake blood concession; if I had, I’d be a rich man today.) The convoluted plot is about a preacher’s son whose family is slaughtered by a gang of outlaws. He throws away his bible, swears vengeance, and hires a gunslinger to teach him how to shoot—and to kill.

  Some wary male bonding develops between the two men, but their bromance (as we’d call it today) is interrupted when the preacher’s son meets a nice girl. She almost persuades him to abandon his mission of vengeance. But when she’s abducted and threatened with gang rape by the outlaws, the preacher’s son becomes more homicidal than ever. He and the gunslinger ride to the rescue together.

  Predictably, the outlaws all die of acute lead poisoning. The preacher’s son throws away his guns a
nd marries the girl. His mentor and buddy, the gunslinger, bides the couple farewell and he rides off into the sunset—alone.

  Once again, I found myself on horseback. But by now I felt more comfortable in the saddle. And I didn’t have to wear skirts. In fact, I looked pretty good in my western attire, if I do say so myself.

  But for this film I did have to master three new talents. I’d never held a firearm in my hand in my life, so I had to learn how to manipulate and fire a gun convincingly. They were prop guns, loaded with blanks; but handling them still made me nervous at first.

  The director insisted that my character smoke cheroots. Again, I’d never smoked tobacco before (marijuana, yes). I could fake the smoking most of the time, but there were in a few scenes in which I had to inhale, and then blow out the smoke through my mouth and my nostrils. I spoiled the first such take by gagging on the acrid taste of the cheroot.

  Finally, I had to do some real acting. My character, the tough, callous gunslinger, was dirty and disheveled most of the time. But for some reason, he was irresistible to frontier women. Throughout the film, women threw themselves at him, and he bedded most of them. There was even one scene in which the frolicking took place in an old fashioned freestanding bathtub, with legs. Pretending to be a lusty heterosexual horn dog was quite a stretch for me.

  These sex scenes had their farcical moments. When we rehearsed the bathtub episode, my sexy female costar and I were both stripped down to bikini bathing suits—one-piece in my case, two-piece in hers. The bathtub was overflowing with artificially created suds. We got into it and began to make out.

  The director immediately complained that the actress’ bikini top was visible through the suds. Shrugging, she shed it, and went right on making (or rather faking) love to me, topless. But then the director said that our bikini bottoms could be glimpsed, as well. He insisted that we do the scene nude. Were we willing to do that?