by Zack
“Rotten shot,” Mike said, as he opened his own bottle. He walked over to the bed. Gil stuck his tongue out. Mike sat down beside him, punching him playfully on the arm. Then he tossed his cap at the bin. It went in, right down the middle.
“Smartass,” Gil said.
“Comes of playing cricket,” Mike replied matter-of-factly. He took a sip from the bottle and smiled smugly at Gil.
“Oh yeah, cricket. Isn’t that the game English faggots play?”
“S’right, my ol’ balling buddy. They wear these sexy white trousers and shirts with the sleeves rolled up and rub bright red balls up and down their crotches.”
“And have each other in the showers afterward, I suppose.”
“No, that’s rugger.”
“What the fuck’s rugger?” Gil asked.
“Like your football, only for real men. Rugby players are into things like sweaty jock straps.”
“You ever play it, Mike?”
“Yes, I had to at school.”
“So… you wore a jock, huh?”
Mike grinned and squinted sideways at Gil.
Gil pretended to be quite serious, waiting for his answer. He swigged his Coke. “Well, did you?”
“I’ve still got one somewhere,” Mike said.
“What do they feel like?”
“You mean you’ve never worn a jockstrap?” Mike asked in genuine astonishment. Gil shook his head. “Well, it’s difficult to say. I mean they’re, well, tight, I suppose.”
“Show you off well in front?” said Gil, still serious.
“Are you getting off on this?” Mike laughed.
“I’m just trying to imagine what you would look like in one, that’s all.” Gil turned fully and looked Mike up and down as though seeing him naked except for an imaginary jock strap. It gave Mike a strange feeling as he stared back at the good looking American mentally undressing him.
Gil smiled secretly and continued tipping his bottle.
An uncomfortable silence grew and suddenly neither of them knew how to fill it. Their earlier easiness on the film set seemed to have vanished. Mike fidgeted and then got up and went to the window. He stood with a hand in one pocket, trying to look nonchalant as he stared blindly out the window. Behind him he heard the bed creak as Gil shifted his weight.
“Well,” said Gil suddenly, “that brought the conversation to a halt.”
Mike didn’t reply.
“Hey.” Gil got to his feet. “Hey, Mike, what’s wrong?” He walked across the room and came up to stand a foot or so behind his friend. Still Mike made no move. Gil put out his hand and rested it lightly on Mike’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he asked again.
Mike half turned. “Nothing.” He took a step and looked briefly into Gil’s eyes. Then he walked past him and back to the side of the bed. Gil watched him as he rummaged through the contents of the bedside table. Mike sat down the edge of the bed and opened a pack of cigarettes. He took one out and lit from a match, inhaling the first drag deeply.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Gil said, coming to sit beside Mike again. Mike didn’t answer and carried on smoking silently, staring moodily at the window. “Hell, Mike, I’m sorry. I mean I was only joking, buddy. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Mike looked at him sadly. “No?”
“Hell, no.”
“Rosen’s arriving on Friday.”
Gil was slightly taken aback at this apparent non-sequitur. “Yeah. So what?”
“You know about me and Rosen?” Mike asked, puffing smoke out through his nostrils.
Gil shrugged his shoulders. “I heard something. You know what a film crew’s like.”
“Rosen’s a jealous guy.”
“I still don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”
Mike looked at him again. “Don’t you?”
Gil stared right back, trying to see into Mike through his eyes. They looked unusually bright, set so evenly either side of Mike’s small, straight nose. For once, all the bounce and irrepressible humor of his friend seemed to have evaporated. Suddenly Gil realized that Mike was feeling the same thing he was feeling and it stirred deep inside him. It had nothing to do with the excitement that Jeff or Harry had aroused in him. This seemed altogether more important. He reached out and took hold of Mike’s arm. He could feel that Mike was shivering. Mike smiled sadly. “You’re quite something, you know that?” he husked.
Gil sniffed and tried to smile back. “You too, Mike.” For a long time they sat there, frozen into immobility by the enormity of what had suddenly become apparent to both of them. Then, as though drawn by an outside force, Gil leaned over to Mike. Their lips met, but not with the abandoned violence of sexual passion. This was lingering and loving, gently probing, and it was an entirely new sensation for them. Mike lifted an arm and slowly enfolded Gil’s body. It was amateurish and reminded Gil of his first puppy-love cuddlings with girls in the back seats of the local movie house back home. They sat, turned in toward each other, arms interlocked, kissing like a pair of coy lovers, chastely but with hidden promise of forbidden things to come.
Gil became quite lost in the eternity of that kiss. It was quite different from their first gropings behind the scenery on the film set. It was almost as though they had rediscovered each other. At last Mike sighed and released his lips from Gil’s. They remained, inches apart, doing nothing but staring into each other’s eyes, mutely aware of their feelings.
It was Mike who spoke first. “I want you,” was all he managed, softly uttered in a hoarse voice. Gil smiled his answer, but within himself he said, no, not now. It was too soon after his little adventure with Harry and although he could have easily enough coped with another bout of sex, he felt it would somehow undervalue his feelings for Mike to leap into bed with him right then.
“What about Rosen?”
Mike grimaced and sighed. He moved away from Gil and picked up his Coke again, sipping from it thoughtfully. “I don’t know. He doesn’t like his lovers—I mean fuck-pieces—messing about behind his back. I don’t think he’d like it much.”
“So what do we do, then?”
“I dunno,” Mike said. Then he brightened up and grinned, punching Gil on the arm again. “Hey, never mind, ballin’ buddy. We can wait, can’t we? Perhaps he’ll get fed up with me after this trip. For once he’ll only be here a few days. We can wait?”
Gil nodded. It was important enough. They could wait.
Gil drained his bottle and flung it over his shoulder at the trash can. It clattered loudly as it fell in. “See,” he said sneeringly.
Mike finished his off and followed suit. There was another clang as his empty bottle bounced off the side of the trash can. He followed its path glumly as the ribbed glass rolled across the floor and came to rest with a bump against the door.
“So much for cricket, old man,” mocked Gil in an imitation upper-crust English accent. “Too bad, old chappie. You rhally will have to try harder.”
“Piss orf,” Mike said.
“That’s what I’m going to do.” Gil’s voice was tender again. “I’m going to take a shower. In my own room,” he added as he saw Mike’s expression.
“It’s probably as well. If you stay her much longer I might forget myself and have at you.”
Gil patted him on the shoulder and got up. When he reached the door he stooped to pick up Mike’s fallen bottle and tossed it easily into the trash can.
“Smartass!” he heard Mike yelling after him. Then the door shut and he was out in the long corridor. He felt drained by what had just happened and too restless to go and shower. There was still an hour before the hotel served dinner. At a loss, he wandered down the corridor and into the elevator car because it was standing there, doors ope
n, on his floor. It whisked him down to the ground floor so he got out and mooched about the stores and kiosks in the lobby.
As he passed the desk, the clerk looked up and smiled at him. There seemed to be more than merely professional courtesy involved in the man’s expression. He was drawn over to the desk by it, and instantly regretted it. But he had started over and could hardly turn away just like that, so he walked up to the desk. The clerk peered closely at him. “Was there something you wanted?” Gil asked politely.
“Well, I’m not sure, sir,” the clerk replied. “It’s a perhaps you that wants something.”
“Oh yeah, and what would that be?” Gil asked, less politely. The clerk’s smug assurance annoyed him.
The guy didn’t seem at all put out. “Well,” he began, and then leaned across the desk in a confidential manner, “I have a leetle problem in point of fact, which you might be able to help me with.”
“That so?”
“I assure you, signore, you won’t suffer by it. Not at all. In fact,” and he leaned even closer, “you mighta benefit to some great degree.” He looked at Gil with a penetrating stare.
“So what is your problem?” Gil asked icily.
“The gentleman in number 324, signore. Ee’s in town for a couple-a nights. Regular customer, influential and very rich. We always like to do our best, you understand. Well, it’s a bit embarrassing and I really don’t like asking you this, signore, but would you mind standing in for someone?”
“What the hell’re you talking about?” Gil exclaimed, suddenly getting angry.
“I can see you’re a very sensible young man, signore, and, if I’m not mistaken, which I very rarely am, I woulda say that you’re a man of the world.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You see, the problem is that my brother-in-law runs a very exclusive escort agency in Rome. Gentlemen like the man in 324 appreciate the service it gives because my brother-in-law supplies only the most pleasant and, shall we say, sophisticated young men, like yourself, to accompany influential businessmen to dinner. They like the interesting conversation, you see. Now the trouble is that I had arranged for such a young escort for the man in 324. Unfortunately my brother-in-law has made a most unfortunate error and double-booked the particular young man in question. I just thought, signore, that, well with your, shall we say, demeanor, you would be a most excellent replacement.”
“You’ve got to be kidding—”
“I would not normally prevail in this manner, you understand, but I just don’t know where to turn for help, signore. This could end up ruining my reputation. I’m sure you understand. The normal fee for escorting a fine gentleman to his dinner is quite substantial.”
Gil laughed lightly. “We don’t do too badly on a movie crew.”
The clerk gave a small moue of horror. “Of course you don’t, signore. I was not trying to suggest you were a pauper. However, Rome is an expensive place and I know that money doesn’t go that far. A little extra is always welcome, is it not?”
Gil thought for a moment. “How welcome?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“What! Two hundred—just to go to dinner?”
“I think that would be reasonable for a cultured person like yourself.”
“Jeez, that’s quite a bit.”
“Of course, if you felt like giving me a gratuity, of say, ten percent?”
“What do I do, then?” Gil asked.
“Just present yourself to the gentleman in room 324 in about half an hour and say that Pietro sent you.”
“Yeah, well I’ll think about it. Perhaps, if I feel like it. We’ll see, okay?”
“Very good of you, signore. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing. And may I wish you buon appetito.”
“Yeah, well, perhaps. See you.”
And with that Gil headed for the elevator bank. He did not see Pietro counting out the thirty dollars the gentleman in 324 had already given him. But, as he had told the youngster, Rome was not a cheap place to live, especially not on the salary he made as a desk clerk. He smiled to himself. He knew Herr Doktor Grünli’s taste in boys almost as well as the good Swiss Doktor knew it.
Grünli was not a medical Herr Doktor. Like many German-speaking Swiss he was obsessed by official titles. Bernhardt Grünli was a business efficiency expert with a doctorate in corporate management from Bern University. He had held several teaching posts in the States including Harvard and had retired at the age of thirty to become a professionally wealthy man by telling others how to run their businesses. His visits to Rome were frequent since he loved most of all telling countries how to manage their affairs and Italy’s were always in such a mess.
He invariably stayed at the Vittorio Emmanuele instead of somewhere swankier in the center because of its proximity to Pietro the Procurer. He and Pietro had often done business in the past—not in corporate management though.
He was just combing his still thick and well groomed hair, and grudgingly admitting to himself that he was not in bad shape for a fifty-one year old, when there was a timid knock at the door to his three-roomed suite.
“Come in, it’s not locked,” he shouted in faintly accented English. He heard the door open but instead of going to greet his visitor he finished his toilet. Grünli had learned long ago that it was always best to keep people waiting, even if only for a few moments. He smiled at his face in the mirror with satisfaction and a sense of anticipation. On these occasions the waiting period was not so much an exercise in unnerving the visitor as it was a means of heightening his own appetite, teasing himself by forcing him to wait just that little bit longer before feasting his eyes on whatever bambino Pietro had found this time. Pietro never failed. There was that really hot Italian farmboy number on the last visit, certainly the hottest lay Grünli had enjoyed in a long time.
Gil stood in the center of the luxurious sitting room, reflecting nervously on how different it was from his own. Its owner was obviously very well off. He had showered and shaved, thought about wearing cologne but decided against it in the end. He had also dressed as well as his small wardrobe would allow for the occasion—in well-pressed black trousers bought on the one day out he had managed in the city proper, which had attracted his attention because they were so obviously European in cut; a pale fawn shirt, slightly parted at the neck to reveal a glimpse of white undershirt; and the dark brown velvet jacket his parents had bought him for his nineteenth birthday. His hair was freshly washed and brushed to a fine glow of health. From tip to toe he looked the very all-American boy on a date.
There was a noise from the bedroom and the door opened. The gentleman occupying 324 appeared. Gil’s first shock was that he recognized him as the man in the lobby who had been surreptitiously eyeing him from over the newspaper. His second was the man’s evident surprise at seeing him.
Grünli was quite put off balance. He had been about to launch into his usual pre-take-off patter when he realized that some mistake had been made. This was that glorious boy he had been sneaking looks at in the lobby earlier. There was no way he could be one of Pietro’s whores…more the pity. Grünli could not take his gaze away from the ravishing apparition in front of him.
“What do you want?” Grünli finally brought himself to say. “Er, do you speak English?” he added.
Gil shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other. “Yeah, sure I do.”
“You’re American. I thought I had seen you before. You’re with the film then?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Gil put a hand in his trouser pocket and stared at the floor. For a moment they both stood in silence. Then Gil added, “Pietro sent me.”
Grünli’s sense of shock intensified. He walked forward into the room and then swerved aside to the drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, which years in the Stat
es had taught him was his favorite whiskey. “Drink?” he asked.
“Sure,” Gil replied shortly.
After Grünli had poured them both a stiff glass and given himself a little thinking time he handed the drink over to Gil and remained standing close, looking at him. “So Pietro sent you, did he?”
Gill glanced up defiantly. “Yeah. Said something about dinner.”
“Dinner?” A glint of humor appeared in Grünli’s eyes as he repeated the word. God, but this one’s green, he thought with delight. The genuine article. He would have to reward Pietro further. He let his eyes slide down the kid’s slim body until he stopped at the place where the black trousers clung tightly to the cock-shaped convexity.
Gil turned away uncomfortably. He was slightly annoyed with himself for having been taken in. Well, he hadn’t been taken in really. No one pays a young guy two hundred dollars to go to dinner with him, but he had kind of pretended that that was the case. The look had shattered that silly illusion.
“I’m Bernhardt Grünli,” the man said, shaking Gil’s hand firmly. “What’s your name?”
“Gil Graham.” He forced a small smile.
“Well then, Gil Graham,” Grünli said, draining his glass, “as you were promised dinner, let’s go eat.”
Grünli turned out to be an amusing companion, full of poisonous anecdotes about heads of state he had done business with. They had an enjoyable and frighteningly expensive meal. Gil soon found himself relaxing with his companion and beginning to talk back about his own life, which Grünli appeared to find flatteringly fascinating. Gil was aware that he was being wooed but he didn’t mind the attention. Grünli kept turning the conversation to sexy subjects without actually saying anything specific and Gil took great delight in regaling the man with tales about his girlfriends back in Los Angeles.