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Change at Gallery Place
- Thread starter EasyRory
- Start date
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Fifty
“My God! Look how big his balls are!”
The nurse giggled, Al frowned, and the doctor glared at Mike.
“I'm just saying … they're huge!” Mike pointed at the sizable testicles. Debbie had just given birth to a healthy baby boy and as with all baby boys, some things like heads and testicles always look surprisingly big.
“Not really,” the nurse answered Mike. “It's a matter of proportion.” She wisked the baby away from the doctor to wipe him down and make sure his airway was clear. The new guy was soon cocooned in white and nestled in his mother's arms. His face showed, small and very red.
Al kissed Debbie, marking her territory in a way and looked closely at the baby. “Do you think he looks like me?” she asked the world at large.
“Why would he?” The doctor sounded annoyed by the question; it was ten thirty at night and his evening plans had been ruined. It was the kind of unthinking insult from unthinking people that Al would have to live with. From the look on her face it was clear that the doctor's bill would not be the first one she paid next month.
“He's beautiful. He's perfect!” Mike's smile would split his face if it were any wider. “In the eyes, Al ... I think he does look like you.” The baby's eyes were squeezed shut, resembling nothing except the eyes of another newborn, but it was what Al wanted to hear.
By the time of the celebration introducing the child to his mothers' and father's friends, Al was feeling kicks from her own child-to-be. She had worked too hard, planning and organizing the party and she need not have. Mike and Lucky would have done it all, but she insisted. There was something competitive about her participation. Debbie was all wrapped up in the baby and the guys were being way too good in the fathering department; their presence was nearly constant. Al was feeling, not left out, exactly, but she had a constant sense of being underappreciated.
Lucky was the one who noticed it and tried provide some indirect support. He stood next to her in the kitchen, helping make a salad. “You know, Al, we could have conceived your child naturally. I wouldn't have minded at all.”
However well-meaning his remark was meant to be, offering to fuck a pregnant lesbian, even retrospectively, is an iffy proposition. Al took it badly. She dropped the knife she was using, causing a small cut on her index finger.
“Now there's blood in the fucking lettuce!” She abruptly dumped the bowl into the sink and burst into tears. Then she was furious with herself for acting like a pregnant woman instead of like Superlesbian, as she imagined herself. Breaking down in front of Lucky mortified her; she would rather have fucked him than cried in his presence. She walked swiftly into her bedroom and sat on the bed, no longer sobbing but breathing hard and holding a Kleenex on her cut finger.
Lucky sat next to her, but she turned away. He put his arm on her shoulder and said, “You are going to be the best mother on Macomb Street. Our child and his brother are going to be the luckiest kids in Washington, having you for a mother. But you don't have to do it all by yourself. Debbie will help and you have Mike and me as slave labor … in case we're ever required.”
“We should be thinking of Debbie and her baby. This is her day … their day.”
“It's our day, too.” Lucky did his best to comfort her but his comfort wasn't what she needed at that moment. She needed some sense that her life still had stability, that after the babies she would remain good at the things she was good at, that two children weren't going to upend everything. She couldn't find any reassurance in Lucky's words, although she pretended to. She dried her tears and ended an intimacy she wasn't looking for, saying, “Let's go finish the salad.”
The afternoon swirled away from her. Presents for the baby piled up, beside a growing bale of discarded wrapping paper and ribbons that she couldn't empty fast enough. Congratulations for Debbie and Mike filled the air; at the same time she felt that the inquiries into her own pregnancy were polite and perfunctory. Nobody cared what her answers were. Even Lucky, who kept an eye on her, was taken up in his own good fortune when Ann's exotic Sheik promised to make a contribution to the new musuem.
She didn't want to intrude on the joy of the day, but she didn't feel quite right and went into her bedroom, wishing that Debbie would come in and sit with her. This will all work out. I know it will, she told herself. That's a lie; I know nothing of the sort. She briefly laughed at the formality of her thought, as if she were the overwrought heroine of a Victorian novel. And then the first pain tore through her. She screamed and felt a seeping, a hot wetness between her legs. First the color drained out of her vision, then there was an insect-like buzzing sound that came from everywhere, then nothing.
They dropped Heiko's stuff at his absent cousin's house and went directly to the nearest pub. Heiko complained that the beer was weak; nevertheless he ordered a second pint. He wanted a hefeweizen and the pub could offer only a Belgian wheat beer in cans. “A good hefeweizen is almost a meal, Tom; we wouldn't need dinner.” Heiko wasn't drunk, but he showed the concentrated earnestness and overly careful pronunciation of someone on his way.
“There's a good seafood place near here. I'd actually like dinner. And then we could walk you back to your cousin's place.” Tom's stomach rumbled in agreement with his brain.
“After a couple more beers. So enough about phony princesses. How's your love life?”
“Well, at the moment ...”
“You deserve much better than that, Tom,” Heiko concluded without hearing from Tom. “You are such a perfect prospect and you never get the guy you want … not for long.”
“Yeah, but what I miss in intensity, I make up for in volume,” Tom joked.
“You're looking too hard … That's it. Too hard. Just take life as it comes.” Heiko's piercing blue eyes focused narrowly on Tom.
“How's that working for you? You're not taking your engagement at all as it comes.” Tom tried to be gentle in his criticism.
“My engagement …” Heiko made a spitting sound. “Let's look for another pub.”
Tom made the trip to the next pub a long walk, figuring a little air and exercise would work up an appetite. They worked their way north across Kensington Gardens and onto Queensway. After thirty minutes of hiking hunger replaced Heiko's thirst. Thai food and Singha beer was more than good enough, the two men agreed; and the food help lift the cloud over Heiko.
“So what if you just tell your father 'No'?” Tom asked.
“The thing is I've been expecting this all my life. Since I was a little boy my parents have told me my obligations were to the family. My great uncle is the real head of the family, but we all have … this is going to sound strange to an American … a kind of dynastic awareness. We work for ourselves, but there is a family component to it. Great Uncle Lutz keeps score, informally, but he does keep score. So far I am considered a credit, but if I refuse the marriage ...” Heiko shrugged, not sure what would happen.
“When are you going to meet your bride?”
“I already have, sort of; but we were small children. I barely remember her. I'm supposed to meet her here next week. The engagement isn't official, but she knows why we're meeting.”
“So she could say, 'I like guys with brown eyes. You won't do.' Something like that?“
“I guess she could, but she won't. Her family is like mine.”
“What if she's … I don't know … lesbian or something?”
“What if she is? I told my father I was gay and first he tried to brush it off. Then he said being homosexual is like having a hobby. It might be fun, but you can't survive at it. And to him survival means putting more into the family than you take out – basically, making some money and producing a couple of children named Wittelsbach.”
“Wow.” It was very hard to feel sorry for someone as fortunate as Heiko, but Tom felt sympathy. “Really? 'Ok, but move on.' That's all he said about being gay?”
“More or less, yes. He wasn't approving, but we have some fairly notorious ancestors … 'Mad' King Luddy, for example.” Heiko smiled; he plainly liked and admired his father. There was no seething rebellion in his heart. “We're talking about me again ...” He looked down at his plate. “Are prawns and shrimp the same thing?”
“Different gill structure,” Tom answered.
“I knew you would know that!” Heiko seemed relaxed, fully at ease for the first time. The pleasure of seeing his old friend was replacing the alcohol's warmth.
Phil and Alex hurried back to the Gisela. Just two hours before they had been walking back from Kiefersfelden in the warmth of the afternoon. The river was flowing slowly on a lazy afternoon that invited contemplation. They stopped in the woods adjacent to the road. The traffic noise was loud, so they moved farther into the woods, finding a seat on a large rock.
“Sit here,” Phil sat on the rock and patted the area between his spread legs. He hugged Alex against him as they watched the river. Phil loved holding Alex, who was a handful, strong and assertive when he wanted to be, yielding when he wanted to be. On this afternoon he was yielding.
Alex leaned his head back against Phil's shoulder and then turned to kiss Phil's neck. “I had no idea how good living with you would be, Phil. The sex is sweet, but I knew it would be. You yourself are the surprise.” Phil held him tighter. “I can't wait to talk to you every morning.”
Phil laughed at that and said, “I'm usually the first one up.”
“No I mean that instant, the minute I know when I'm coming out of sleep, just waking up, I want it to happen faster so I can see you. See what you're doing. Like this morning, when you were concentrating so hard on rifles. You came up with the idea that we go after a used one.”
“I didn't. You did.”
“But you planted the seed. The price was your insight. You noticed that we couldn't afford one, which is absolutely true. I was thinking we'd ask Dimitri for the money, but your instinct was right for our circumstances. We look for a used one.”
“It was your idea, Alex.”
“But I wouldn't have had it without you. You're like the missing part of my brain. And you're like that every day for me.” Alex took one of Phil's hands in his own and kissed the fingers.
“Shut up.”
Alex tried to see why Phil said that but Phil's grip on him tightened and held him in place. He tore lose and saw the tears. He wiped Phil's cheeks and then kissed him. “Every day, Phil, you make every day better.”
Phil sniffled and blinked his eyes. “Sorry I get so sappy.”
They settled back onto the rock and watched the clouds. Phil pointed, “That one looks like Druji … you know … the way he used to stand over the stove?”
Alex waited and then said, “I'm sorry for what happened on the ship. You shouldn't have let … You shouldn't have been … Boryslaw and Jepsen, both.”
Phil sighed. “Jepsen wasn't so bad, physically. His disgust was what hurt. He treated me like dirt, literally. There wasn't a hint of humanity; I was total scum to him.” Phil paused while Alex kissed his fingers again. “Boryslaw, on the other hand … that hurt. He has a monster dick.” Phil paused and then continued in a joking tone. “I'm not that used to guys with foreskins, but his was nothing like yours. He was huge. His cock looked like an anteater. I mean, if he got badly burned, there was one obvious source for a skin graft.”
“Ouch,” Alex answered and then laughed. He put his hand around Phil's wrist and held it. “Do you think … if they grafted his foreskin onto his arm, he could jack off just by rubbing his arm?”
“No!”
“Why not?” Alex asked. He rolled against Phil, rubbing Phil's arm in a sensual way, which first led to a lot of kissing and trouser-confined erections and then slightly painful cock adjustments when they got up.
“If we're quick at the factory, there will be time when we get to the hotel,” Phil promised.
In a little more than an hour they entered the main door of the Voere Works and asked to see Lothar Brunner. Promptly, a slim man dressed in a suit and tie appeared. He had just put the jacket on and was still buttoning it.
Lothar did not look like a used arms dealer. He looked like a bookkeeper. He greeted them timidly and said his cousin had called. “You are interested in used Voere rifles?”
“Yes, but price is important. Your cousin said a used Mauser would be more affordable.”
“But a Mauser is mass-produced. A Voere is almost hand made. Let me show you.” Lothar was plainly delighted to lead a tour of the factory. He started in the woodworking section where the stocks were formed and polished. He emphasized the time and skill that went into the product. “It pays off in the feel of the rifle, the comfort and balance in your hands. The better the feel, the more accurate your aim will be not just on one shot, but reliably, every time.”
Then they went into the machine shop, where the barrels were drilled out and rifled. “This technique is demanding. If the rifling isn't precise, the bullets can tumble in flight; you will either miss randomly or merely wound your prey. Cruel for the animal and for you.”
“What's that box?” Alex asked.
“Those barrels have been incorrectly drilled or warped in the annealing process. Rejects. Just scrap metal, now,” Lothar explained.
“Can't you melt them down and remake them?” Phil questioned.
“No. We can forge but not melt. We only reheat a few things, parts of the action. In the case of barrels, we sell them. Even as scrap, they are valuable because the quality of the steel is very high.”
“You sell them back to the steel company that made the … the what?” Alex asked.
“The forged rods. No, we sell them to a metal shop in Slovakia. They pay more.”
“Excuse all the crazy questions … I studied ops analysis back in the States and that kind of detail fascinates me.” Alex held his hands out as if his admission was a surrender.
Lothar allowed himself a tight smile. “You are a … a nerd? Is that the word?”
It was Alex's turn to laugh. “A wanna-be nerd. I'm a musician who wants to be an accountant.”
Lothar's smile became genuine. “I'm an accountant who wants to be a musician.”
They high-fived in an uncoordinated way almost knocking some finished barrels off a shelf. The conversation continued into the details of the costing process and Lothar explained that the price of high quality scrap was much higher in Slovakia than in Germany, where they used to sell it.
“It's almost as profitable to produce scrap for Slovakia as to sell the rifles.” Lothar laughed. “We make money either way!”
“Why wouldn't the Slovaks buy the metal directly from the Germans?”
“Because they aren't a big enough customer and die grosshandler … I don't know the English … someone who buys big lots and sells them in smaller quantities ...”
“Wholesaler?” Alex prompted.
“Ya! The wholesaler who would sell to the Slovaks charges more than they pay us. Plus we give them a piece of strudel and coffee when they visit.” Lothar laughed at little too much at his own joke.
“Amazing. So everybody is happy except the wholesaler. Efficiency is beautiful.”
Alex's last comment won Lothar over completely. He was like a puppy in his enthusiasm. “Effizienz ist schoenheit! That's exactly what my professor used to say. Would you like to try one of our rifles? We have a shooting range.”
“Could we come back tomorrow? We're playing at the Hotel Gisela and need to get back there. I know what ... Could we buy you a beer? Maybe you could come and hear us tonight,” Phil proposed.
“Bring a friend, Lothar. Bring all your friends. We need the business,” Alex added.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Lucky saw the return address and tried to hug the mailman. The US – Saudi Arabian Business Council maintained an office in Washington ostensibly for trade development purposes. Kaden Ali Khan was the co-director.
“It's here! It came!” he called to Mike.
“I thought you came. What's the excitement!”
“The donation! The one Ann's boy friend promised! The Arabian gazillionaire!” Lucky tore the envelope open and eyed the check. Then he read the letter. Then he looked at the check again. Then he slumped onto the sofa and read the letter again.
“What? What, Lucky?”
“It's for a thousand dollars.” Lucky let the letter fall onto the cushion as he looked harder at the check. “Yep, that's it. A lousy thousand.”
“It's something. It's a start.” Mike sat down and looked at the discarded letter. “See … right here … he says he's going to recommend your museum to some associates.”
“I hoped for more … with Ann part of the effort and all … Oh, well. Nothing is ever that easy, is it?”
“I am. I'm real easy. Any time you want.” Mike was only half teasing. He got up and reminded Lucky, “You're supposed to go to Brent's at four. You still want to go?”
“Yeah, sure. I'll put on my party smile and some tight jeans.”
“The hell you will. You'll dress like the Director of the Merridell Museum and you'll make 'em all drool. And you will drop the word that the musuem has received a substantial donation from a Saudi backer.”
“I can't say substantial; that would be a lie and I'd get caught. We have to make our donations public. People would find out. I could say 'participation', though. That would be truthful.”
At eighteen minutes after four Lucky greeted Brent and Charles. Brent was a little distant, not sure what Lucky's attitude would be, but Charles was friendly and welcoming. Gantry was there as well and she seemed pleased to see him. They exchanged how-goes-it's and were catching up when the art critic for the Post wedged himself into the conversation.
“So … whatcha gonna do with your porn collection, Lucky?” Lucky explained briefly. “Oh, no,” the critic scoffed. “Not another one of those vanity museums like the Kreeger. No art, no parking, and a huge write off for the Kreeger heirs.”
The Kreeger Museum on Foxhall Road had been the home of a self-made billionaire with a mediocre collection of mostly impressionists. This huge tax deduction was located in the middle of a residential section of town, convenient to nothing and largely inaccessible to the general public; it was a great way of disposing of an ugly house none of the heirs wanted. The parallels to Lucky's situation in the old mansion on Macomb Street were too close for comfort.
“We're planning for additional participation that will allow us to do other things. But locating Apartment C at the site of its creation seems good, and, given its nature, the location will make crowd management easier. Plus, for Washington, we will have better parking than the Kreeger.” Lucky made the parking comment lightheartedly, but parking mattered a lot in congested Washington.
“Well, good luck. Museums are a major industry in Washington, as you well know,” the critic sniffed.
“We have secured some Saudi participation, and are working on more. It's work, as YOU well know.” The word Saudi gets attention anywhere and in the Washington world of donations it was magic. The critic's mouth dropped open; but he quickly recovered and moved to another part of the room.
“Really? Saudis?” Gantry whispered as she watched the critic approach the Tin Man, as Tyndall Arnstein was still known in art circles.
“Exactly one Saudi who gave a lousy thousand.”
“But the expression on Mr. Washington Post's face was priceless,” Gantry joked. “I'll ask my company if they'll make a donation. You helped us out enough. The trouble is we're in Alameda. You won't be able to drop 'Silicone Valley' on him next time.”
“A 'Bay Area Software Company' … it's almost as good,” Lucky winked. They exchanges smiles right before things got nasty.
It happened quickly. The party was going along well enough when Tyndall bellowed like a buffalo, “SMALL! How SMALL is this?” He lurched to one side and kneed the art critic in the balls as he grabbed for a chair.
The art critic collapsed clutching his testicles with both hands. “Fucking porn actor,” he sobbed. Gasping, the injured man scrabbled desperately forward and bit Tyndall on the ankle, which act became the justification for a kick to his jaw. Charles and Brent with help from others separated the two, but the critic's 911 call set new wheels in motion.
“I haven't been to a party that was raided since college,” Gantry joked. “Should we stay? Should we go?” Others weren't asking questions, they were bailing out in a hurry.
“I'm going to stay. Maybe I can help,” Lucky said. “But unless you want to be stuck here for hours with the cops, you should probably go.”
“I don't know. The food's good. The company's entertaining. I'll stay.”
When the police entered, they found Charles and Brent tending to Tyndall's ankle and Lucky and Gantry cleaning up the critic's face.
Dylan's anger didn't last long, but he made Alfred and Daniel work to earn his forgiveness. There was dinner one night and drinks the next. Over the course of the two evenings, he allowed his mood to mellow, especially after he realized he was going home alone while Alfred and Daniel were becoming a couple whether he forgave them or not.
“So what have you told Tom?” Dylan asked Alfred while Daniel was in the loo.
“Um, nothing.”
“Don't you think you owe him a phone call or something?”
“Did you tell Daniel about China and Cris?”
“No, but that's different. Completely different.” Dylan was suddenly defensive. “China and Cris never had any deep feelings for me. And neither did Daniel, I suppose.”
“He said sex with you was great. That's what he told me.”
“Cris said that? Did you fuck him too?”
“Only once, but that's beside the point. No, Daniel said it.”
“Alfred, face it. You are a sex fiend, an addict. You fuck every bloke you meet. Does Daniel know that part?”
“No. but Tom does. I told him about most of it.” Alfred sounded hurt. “Sex fiend is kind of mean, Dylan. Sometimes they fuck me. Not often, but ...” Alfred stopped when Daniel returned to the table with three more pints.
“So here's to the happy couple. Who am I to stand in the way?” Dylan toasted with his fresh beer. Only Alfred could hear the cynicism.
Daniel blushed. “C-couple?” He looked shyly at Alfred. “Are we a couple?”
“Do you want to be?” Alfred asked.
“Y-yes. Very much. I do.” Daniel nodded, affirming his words. He got a smile in return from Alfred.
As they left that night, Dylan hissed to Alfred, “If you break his heart, I will pull out two of your front teeth and stuff them so far up your arse that dentists will pay money to look.”
“What was that about?” Daniel asked Alfred when they were alone. “Dylan sounded angry.”
“He's joking. You know how everything is dramatic with him.”
“He's nice, though, Alfred. I'm glad he's over … you know … us.”
“Yes. About that ...”
“Being a couple? We don't have to say anything to people. I don't think I'm ready for that, anyway. But knowing it, just the two of us, is like having a secret together. I've never done that before. Not even with a girl.”
Daniel had a direct manner that combined honesty, affection, and innocence. Coupled with a youthful athletic look and a hot body, Alfred couldn't deny him anything. They got to Daniel's flat and Daniel immediately dragged Alfred into the bedroom, while Daniel's flatmate Liam flipped between watching Eastenders and highlights of last week's football.
Naked and snuggling, Alfred whispered, “I thought your mate objected to this.”
“I told him to get over it. We just can't be too noisy.”
“I can hear you!” came the voice from the other room.
Daniel pulled Alfred against him and whispered, “We're a couple?”
“I guess so,” Alfred answered and began slowly kissing every part of Daniel's body. The sound of the television got louder and louder as their lovemaking progressed. During one passionate moment Liam sang three verses of 'Rule, Britannia' to mask the proceedings.
“We weren't quiet enough,” Alfred said when it was over.
“I was a little noisy. I can't help it. Every time gets better,” Daniel panted.
They dressed and Daniel walked Alfred to the door. Liam looked up and said, “My bed is two feet away from what just took place. How am I supposed to sleep?”
“I'm walking Alfred to the corner. That gives you about two minutes for a wank. Ought to be plenty of time, from what I heard you doing last week.”
“Fuck. Nothing's private around here. G'night, Alfred,” Liam muttered.
“He's jealous. He likes you,” Daniel told Alfred as they walked down a flight of stairs.
“I thought you said he's straight.”
“He is; but he's still jealous. I'm getting laid and he isn't.”
Alfred walked home in perfect peace, sexually drained, mentally relaxed. He barely noticed his surroundings. He nodded to his mum, surprised to see her home and still awake.
“Tom called,” she said. “He'd like you to call him in London. Who's Tom?”
“My God! Look how big his balls are!”
The nurse giggled, Al frowned, and the doctor glared at Mike.
“I'm just saying … they're huge!” Mike pointed at the sizable testicles. Debbie had just given birth to a healthy baby boy and as with all baby boys, some things like heads and testicles always look surprisingly big.
“Not really,” the nurse answered Mike. “It's a matter of proportion.” She wisked the baby away from the doctor to wipe him down and make sure his airway was clear. The new guy was soon cocooned in white and nestled in his mother's arms. His face showed, small and very red.
Al kissed Debbie, marking her territory in a way and looked closely at the baby. “Do you think he looks like me?” she asked the world at large.
“Why would he?” The doctor sounded annoyed by the question; it was ten thirty at night and his evening plans had been ruined. It was the kind of unthinking insult from unthinking people that Al would have to live with. From the look on her face it was clear that the doctor's bill would not be the first one she paid next month.
“He's beautiful. He's perfect!” Mike's smile would split his face if it were any wider. “In the eyes, Al ... I think he does look like you.” The baby's eyes were squeezed shut, resembling nothing except the eyes of another newborn, but it was what Al wanted to hear.
By the time of the celebration introducing the child to his mothers' and father's friends, Al was feeling kicks from her own child-to-be. She had worked too hard, planning and organizing the party and she need not have. Mike and Lucky would have done it all, but she insisted. There was something competitive about her participation. Debbie was all wrapped up in the baby and the guys were being way too good in the fathering department; their presence was nearly constant. Al was feeling, not left out, exactly, but she had a constant sense of being underappreciated.
Lucky was the one who noticed it and tried provide some indirect support. He stood next to her in the kitchen, helping make a salad. “You know, Al, we could have conceived your child naturally. I wouldn't have minded at all.”
However well-meaning his remark was meant to be, offering to fuck a pregnant lesbian, even retrospectively, is an iffy proposition. Al took it badly. She dropped the knife she was using, causing a small cut on her index finger.
“Now there's blood in the fucking lettuce!” She abruptly dumped the bowl into the sink and burst into tears. Then she was furious with herself for acting like a pregnant woman instead of like Superlesbian, as she imagined herself. Breaking down in front of Lucky mortified her; she would rather have fucked him than cried in his presence. She walked swiftly into her bedroom and sat on the bed, no longer sobbing but breathing hard and holding a Kleenex on her cut finger.
Lucky sat next to her, but she turned away. He put his arm on her shoulder and said, “You are going to be the best mother on Macomb Street. Our child and his brother are going to be the luckiest kids in Washington, having you for a mother. But you don't have to do it all by yourself. Debbie will help and you have Mike and me as slave labor … in case we're ever required.”
“We should be thinking of Debbie and her baby. This is her day … their day.”
“It's our day, too.” Lucky did his best to comfort her but his comfort wasn't what she needed at that moment. She needed some sense that her life still had stability, that after the babies she would remain good at the things she was good at, that two children weren't going to upend everything. She couldn't find any reassurance in Lucky's words, although she pretended to. She dried her tears and ended an intimacy she wasn't looking for, saying, “Let's go finish the salad.”
The afternoon swirled away from her. Presents for the baby piled up, beside a growing bale of discarded wrapping paper and ribbons that she couldn't empty fast enough. Congratulations for Debbie and Mike filled the air; at the same time she felt that the inquiries into her own pregnancy were polite and perfunctory. Nobody cared what her answers were. Even Lucky, who kept an eye on her, was taken up in his own good fortune when Ann's exotic Sheik promised to make a contribution to the new musuem.
She didn't want to intrude on the joy of the day, but she didn't feel quite right and went into her bedroom, wishing that Debbie would come in and sit with her. This will all work out. I know it will, she told herself. That's a lie; I know nothing of the sort. She briefly laughed at the formality of her thought, as if she were the overwrought heroine of a Victorian novel. And then the first pain tore through her. She screamed and felt a seeping, a hot wetness between her legs. First the color drained out of her vision, then there was an insect-like buzzing sound that came from everywhere, then nothing.
They dropped Heiko's stuff at his absent cousin's house and went directly to the nearest pub. Heiko complained that the beer was weak; nevertheless he ordered a second pint. He wanted a hefeweizen and the pub could offer only a Belgian wheat beer in cans. “A good hefeweizen is almost a meal, Tom; we wouldn't need dinner.” Heiko wasn't drunk, but he showed the concentrated earnestness and overly careful pronunciation of someone on his way.
“There's a good seafood place near here. I'd actually like dinner. And then we could walk you back to your cousin's place.” Tom's stomach rumbled in agreement with his brain.
“After a couple more beers. So enough about phony princesses. How's your love life?”
“Well, at the moment ...”
“You deserve much better than that, Tom,” Heiko concluded without hearing from Tom. “You are such a perfect prospect and you never get the guy you want … not for long.”
“Yeah, but what I miss in intensity, I make up for in volume,” Tom joked.
“You're looking too hard … That's it. Too hard. Just take life as it comes.” Heiko's piercing blue eyes focused narrowly on Tom.
“How's that working for you? You're not taking your engagement at all as it comes.” Tom tried to be gentle in his criticism.
“My engagement …” Heiko made a spitting sound. “Let's look for another pub.”
Tom made the trip to the next pub a long walk, figuring a little air and exercise would work up an appetite. They worked their way north across Kensington Gardens and onto Queensway. After thirty minutes of hiking hunger replaced Heiko's thirst. Thai food and Singha beer was more than good enough, the two men agreed; and the food help lift the cloud over Heiko.
“So what if you just tell your father 'No'?” Tom asked.
“The thing is I've been expecting this all my life. Since I was a little boy my parents have told me my obligations were to the family. My great uncle is the real head of the family, but we all have … this is going to sound strange to an American … a kind of dynastic awareness. We work for ourselves, but there is a family component to it. Great Uncle Lutz keeps score, informally, but he does keep score. So far I am considered a credit, but if I refuse the marriage ...” Heiko shrugged, not sure what would happen.
“When are you going to meet your bride?”
“I already have, sort of; but we were small children. I barely remember her. I'm supposed to meet her here next week. The engagement isn't official, but she knows why we're meeting.”
“So she could say, 'I like guys with brown eyes. You won't do.' Something like that?“
“I guess she could, but she won't. Her family is like mine.”
“What if she's … I don't know … lesbian or something?”
“What if she is? I told my father I was gay and first he tried to brush it off. Then he said being homosexual is like having a hobby. It might be fun, but you can't survive at it. And to him survival means putting more into the family than you take out – basically, making some money and producing a couple of children named Wittelsbach.”
“Wow.” It was very hard to feel sorry for someone as fortunate as Heiko, but Tom felt sympathy. “Really? 'Ok, but move on.' That's all he said about being gay?”
“More or less, yes. He wasn't approving, but we have some fairly notorious ancestors … 'Mad' King Luddy, for example.” Heiko smiled; he plainly liked and admired his father. There was no seething rebellion in his heart. “We're talking about me again ...” He looked down at his plate. “Are prawns and shrimp the same thing?”
“Different gill structure,” Tom answered.
“I knew you would know that!” Heiko seemed relaxed, fully at ease for the first time. The pleasure of seeing his old friend was replacing the alcohol's warmth.
Phil and Alex hurried back to the Gisela. Just two hours before they had been walking back from Kiefersfelden in the warmth of the afternoon. The river was flowing slowly on a lazy afternoon that invited contemplation. They stopped in the woods adjacent to the road. The traffic noise was loud, so they moved farther into the woods, finding a seat on a large rock.
“Sit here,” Phil sat on the rock and patted the area between his spread legs. He hugged Alex against him as they watched the river. Phil loved holding Alex, who was a handful, strong and assertive when he wanted to be, yielding when he wanted to be. On this afternoon he was yielding.
Alex leaned his head back against Phil's shoulder and then turned to kiss Phil's neck. “I had no idea how good living with you would be, Phil. The sex is sweet, but I knew it would be. You yourself are the surprise.” Phil held him tighter. “I can't wait to talk to you every morning.”
Phil laughed at that and said, “I'm usually the first one up.”
“No I mean that instant, the minute I know when I'm coming out of sleep, just waking up, I want it to happen faster so I can see you. See what you're doing. Like this morning, when you were concentrating so hard on rifles. You came up with the idea that we go after a used one.”
“I didn't. You did.”
“But you planted the seed. The price was your insight. You noticed that we couldn't afford one, which is absolutely true. I was thinking we'd ask Dimitri for the money, but your instinct was right for our circumstances. We look for a used one.”
“It was your idea, Alex.”
“But I wouldn't have had it without you. You're like the missing part of my brain. And you're like that every day for me.” Alex took one of Phil's hands in his own and kissed the fingers.
“Shut up.”
Alex tried to see why Phil said that but Phil's grip on him tightened and held him in place. He tore lose and saw the tears. He wiped Phil's cheeks and then kissed him. “Every day, Phil, you make every day better.”
Phil sniffled and blinked his eyes. “Sorry I get so sappy.”
They settled back onto the rock and watched the clouds. Phil pointed, “That one looks like Druji … you know … the way he used to stand over the stove?”
Alex waited and then said, “I'm sorry for what happened on the ship. You shouldn't have let … You shouldn't have been … Boryslaw and Jepsen, both.”
Phil sighed. “Jepsen wasn't so bad, physically. His disgust was what hurt. He treated me like dirt, literally. There wasn't a hint of humanity; I was total scum to him.” Phil paused while Alex kissed his fingers again. “Boryslaw, on the other hand … that hurt. He has a monster dick.” Phil paused and then continued in a joking tone. “I'm not that used to guys with foreskins, but his was nothing like yours. He was huge. His cock looked like an anteater. I mean, if he got badly burned, there was one obvious source for a skin graft.”
“Ouch,” Alex answered and then laughed. He put his hand around Phil's wrist and held it. “Do you think … if they grafted his foreskin onto his arm, he could jack off just by rubbing his arm?”
“No!”
“Why not?” Alex asked. He rolled against Phil, rubbing Phil's arm in a sensual way, which first led to a lot of kissing and trouser-confined erections and then slightly painful cock adjustments when they got up.
“If we're quick at the factory, there will be time when we get to the hotel,” Phil promised.
In a little more than an hour they entered the main door of the Voere Works and asked to see Lothar Brunner. Promptly, a slim man dressed in a suit and tie appeared. He had just put the jacket on and was still buttoning it.
Lothar did not look like a used arms dealer. He looked like a bookkeeper. He greeted them timidly and said his cousin had called. “You are interested in used Voere rifles?”
“Yes, but price is important. Your cousin said a used Mauser would be more affordable.”
“But a Mauser is mass-produced. A Voere is almost hand made. Let me show you.” Lothar was plainly delighted to lead a tour of the factory. He started in the woodworking section where the stocks were formed and polished. He emphasized the time and skill that went into the product. “It pays off in the feel of the rifle, the comfort and balance in your hands. The better the feel, the more accurate your aim will be not just on one shot, but reliably, every time.”
Then they went into the machine shop, where the barrels were drilled out and rifled. “This technique is demanding. If the rifling isn't precise, the bullets can tumble in flight; you will either miss randomly or merely wound your prey. Cruel for the animal and for you.”
“What's that box?” Alex asked.
“Those barrels have been incorrectly drilled or warped in the annealing process. Rejects. Just scrap metal, now,” Lothar explained.
“Can't you melt them down and remake them?” Phil questioned.
“No. We can forge but not melt. We only reheat a few things, parts of the action. In the case of barrels, we sell them. Even as scrap, they are valuable because the quality of the steel is very high.”
“You sell them back to the steel company that made the … the what?” Alex asked.
“The forged rods. No, we sell them to a metal shop in Slovakia. They pay more.”
“Excuse all the crazy questions … I studied ops analysis back in the States and that kind of detail fascinates me.” Alex held his hands out as if his admission was a surrender.
Lothar allowed himself a tight smile. “You are a … a nerd? Is that the word?”
It was Alex's turn to laugh. “A wanna-be nerd. I'm a musician who wants to be an accountant.”
Lothar's smile became genuine. “I'm an accountant who wants to be a musician.”
They high-fived in an uncoordinated way almost knocking some finished barrels off a shelf. The conversation continued into the details of the costing process and Lothar explained that the price of high quality scrap was much higher in Slovakia than in Germany, where they used to sell it.
“It's almost as profitable to produce scrap for Slovakia as to sell the rifles.” Lothar laughed. “We make money either way!”
“Why wouldn't the Slovaks buy the metal directly from the Germans?”
“Because they aren't a big enough customer and die grosshandler … I don't know the English … someone who buys big lots and sells them in smaller quantities ...”
“Wholesaler?” Alex prompted.
“Ya! The wholesaler who would sell to the Slovaks charges more than they pay us. Plus we give them a piece of strudel and coffee when they visit.” Lothar laughed at little too much at his own joke.
“Amazing. So everybody is happy except the wholesaler. Efficiency is beautiful.”
Alex's last comment won Lothar over completely. He was like a puppy in his enthusiasm. “Effizienz ist schoenheit! That's exactly what my professor used to say. Would you like to try one of our rifles? We have a shooting range.”
“Could we come back tomorrow? We're playing at the Hotel Gisela and need to get back there. I know what ... Could we buy you a beer? Maybe you could come and hear us tonight,” Phil proposed.
“Bring a friend, Lothar. Bring all your friends. We need the business,” Alex added.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Lucky saw the return address and tried to hug the mailman. The US – Saudi Arabian Business Council maintained an office in Washington ostensibly for trade development purposes. Kaden Ali Khan was the co-director.
“It's here! It came!” he called to Mike.
“I thought you came. What's the excitement!”
“The donation! The one Ann's boy friend promised! The Arabian gazillionaire!” Lucky tore the envelope open and eyed the check. Then he read the letter. Then he looked at the check again. Then he slumped onto the sofa and read the letter again.
“What? What, Lucky?”
“It's for a thousand dollars.” Lucky let the letter fall onto the cushion as he looked harder at the check. “Yep, that's it. A lousy thousand.”
“It's something. It's a start.” Mike sat down and looked at the discarded letter. “See … right here … he says he's going to recommend your museum to some associates.”
“I hoped for more … with Ann part of the effort and all … Oh, well. Nothing is ever that easy, is it?”
“I am. I'm real easy. Any time you want.” Mike was only half teasing. He got up and reminded Lucky, “You're supposed to go to Brent's at four. You still want to go?”
“Yeah, sure. I'll put on my party smile and some tight jeans.”
“The hell you will. You'll dress like the Director of the Merridell Museum and you'll make 'em all drool. And you will drop the word that the musuem has received a substantial donation from a Saudi backer.”
“I can't say substantial; that would be a lie and I'd get caught. We have to make our donations public. People would find out. I could say 'participation', though. That would be truthful.”
At eighteen minutes after four Lucky greeted Brent and Charles. Brent was a little distant, not sure what Lucky's attitude would be, but Charles was friendly and welcoming. Gantry was there as well and she seemed pleased to see him. They exchanged how-goes-it's and were catching up when the art critic for the Post wedged himself into the conversation.
“So … whatcha gonna do with your porn collection, Lucky?” Lucky explained briefly. “Oh, no,” the critic scoffed. “Not another one of those vanity museums like the Kreeger. No art, no parking, and a huge write off for the Kreeger heirs.”
The Kreeger Museum on Foxhall Road had been the home of a self-made billionaire with a mediocre collection of mostly impressionists. This huge tax deduction was located in the middle of a residential section of town, convenient to nothing and largely inaccessible to the general public; it was a great way of disposing of an ugly house none of the heirs wanted. The parallels to Lucky's situation in the old mansion on Macomb Street were too close for comfort.
“We're planning for additional participation that will allow us to do other things. But locating Apartment C at the site of its creation seems good, and, given its nature, the location will make crowd management easier. Plus, for Washington, we will have better parking than the Kreeger.” Lucky made the parking comment lightheartedly, but parking mattered a lot in congested Washington.
“Well, good luck. Museums are a major industry in Washington, as you well know,” the critic sniffed.
“We have secured some Saudi participation, and are working on more. It's work, as YOU well know.” The word Saudi gets attention anywhere and in the Washington world of donations it was magic. The critic's mouth dropped open; but he quickly recovered and moved to another part of the room.
“Really? Saudis?” Gantry whispered as she watched the critic approach the Tin Man, as Tyndall Arnstein was still known in art circles.
“Exactly one Saudi who gave a lousy thousand.”
“But the expression on Mr. Washington Post's face was priceless,” Gantry joked. “I'll ask my company if they'll make a donation. You helped us out enough. The trouble is we're in Alameda. You won't be able to drop 'Silicone Valley' on him next time.”
“A 'Bay Area Software Company' … it's almost as good,” Lucky winked. They exchanges smiles right before things got nasty.
It happened quickly. The party was going along well enough when Tyndall bellowed like a buffalo, “SMALL! How SMALL is this?” He lurched to one side and kneed the art critic in the balls as he grabbed for a chair.
The art critic collapsed clutching his testicles with both hands. “Fucking porn actor,” he sobbed. Gasping, the injured man scrabbled desperately forward and bit Tyndall on the ankle, which act became the justification for a kick to his jaw. Charles and Brent with help from others separated the two, but the critic's 911 call set new wheels in motion.
“I haven't been to a party that was raided since college,” Gantry joked. “Should we stay? Should we go?” Others weren't asking questions, they were bailing out in a hurry.
“I'm going to stay. Maybe I can help,” Lucky said. “But unless you want to be stuck here for hours with the cops, you should probably go.”
“I don't know. The food's good. The company's entertaining. I'll stay.”
When the police entered, they found Charles and Brent tending to Tyndall's ankle and Lucky and Gantry cleaning up the critic's face.
Dylan's anger didn't last long, but he made Alfred and Daniel work to earn his forgiveness. There was dinner one night and drinks the next. Over the course of the two evenings, he allowed his mood to mellow, especially after he realized he was going home alone while Alfred and Daniel were becoming a couple whether he forgave them or not.
“So what have you told Tom?” Dylan asked Alfred while Daniel was in the loo.
“Um, nothing.”
“Don't you think you owe him a phone call or something?”
“Did you tell Daniel about China and Cris?”
“No, but that's different. Completely different.” Dylan was suddenly defensive. “China and Cris never had any deep feelings for me. And neither did Daniel, I suppose.”
“He said sex with you was great. That's what he told me.”
“Cris said that? Did you fuck him too?”
“Only once, but that's beside the point. No, Daniel said it.”
“Alfred, face it. You are a sex fiend, an addict. You fuck every bloke you meet. Does Daniel know that part?”
“No. but Tom does. I told him about most of it.” Alfred sounded hurt. “Sex fiend is kind of mean, Dylan. Sometimes they fuck me. Not often, but ...” Alfred stopped when Daniel returned to the table with three more pints.
“So here's to the happy couple. Who am I to stand in the way?” Dylan toasted with his fresh beer. Only Alfred could hear the cynicism.
Daniel blushed. “C-couple?” He looked shyly at Alfred. “Are we a couple?”
“Do you want to be?” Alfred asked.
“Y-yes. Very much. I do.” Daniel nodded, affirming his words. He got a smile in return from Alfred.
As they left that night, Dylan hissed to Alfred, “If you break his heart, I will pull out two of your front teeth and stuff them so far up your arse that dentists will pay money to look.”
“What was that about?” Daniel asked Alfred when they were alone. “Dylan sounded angry.”
“He's joking. You know how everything is dramatic with him.”
“He's nice, though, Alfred. I'm glad he's over … you know … us.”
“Yes. About that ...”
“Being a couple? We don't have to say anything to people. I don't think I'm ready for that, anyway. But knowing it, just the two of us, is like having a secret together. I've never done that before. Not even with a girl.”
Daniel had a direct manner that combined honesty, affection, and innocence. Coupled with a youthful athletic look and a hot body, Alfred couldn't deny him anything. They got to Daniel's flat and Daniel immediately dragged Alfred into the bedroom, while Daniel's flatmate Liam flipped between watching Eastenders and highlights of last week's football.
Naked and snuggling, Alfred whispered, “I thought your mate objected to this.”
“I told him to get over it. We just can't be too noisy.”
“I can hear you!” came the voice from the other room.
Daniel pulled Alfred against him and whispered, “We're a couple?”
“I guess so,” Alfred answered and began slowly kissing every part of Daniel's body. The sound of the television got louder and louder as their lovemaking progressed. During one passionate moment Liam sang three verses of 'Rule, Britannia' to mask the proceedings.
“We weren't quiet enough,” Alfred said when it was over.
“I was a little noisy. I can't help it. Every time gets better,” Daniel panted.
They dressed and Daniel walked Alfred to the door. Liam looked up and said, “My bed is two feet away from what just took place. How am I supposed to sleep?”
“I'm walking Alfred to the corner. That gives you about two minutes for a wank. Ought to be plenty of time, from what I heard you doing last week.”
“Fuck. Nothing's private around here. G'night, Alfred,” Liam muttered.
“He's jealous. He likes you,” Daniel told Alfred as they walked down a flight of stairs.
“I thought you said he's straight.”
“He is; but he's still jealous. I'm getting laid and he isn't.”
Alfred walked home in perfect peace, sexually drained, mentally relaxed. He barely noticed his surroundings. He nodded to his mum, surprised to see her home and still awake.
“Tom called,” she said. “He'd like you to call him in London. Who's Tom?”
Rory,
Thanks for the chapter- it certainly started out with a grand appearance!
Look at the size of his balls! Priceless.
And it just got better from there - all around.
DC is percolating along, nicely - both from the parenting and the museum hatching aspects,
The Rhineland is coming along, nicely, too.
While back in Gay Olde England, the plot thickens . . .
Thanks for the chapter- it certainly started out with a grand appearance!
Look at the size of his balls! Priceless.
And it just got better from there - all around.
DC is percolating along, nicely - both from the parenting and the museum hatching aspects,
The Rhineland is coming along, nicely, too.
While back in Gay Olde England, the plot thickens . . .
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Sorry for the delay. Back of hand met front of tennis racket; result: no typing for a while.
Ouch!
Sounds like Voice-Command Software time, lol.
(I allegedly have it, have never used it)
Seriously, I hope you heal quickly, and as painlessly as possible.
Sounds like Voice-Command Software time, lol.
(I allegedly have it, have never used it)
Seriously, I hope you heal quickly, and as painlessly as possible.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Fifty-One
A description of the fight at Brent's house between Tin Man Arnstein and the art critic of the Washington Post was buried in Section B midweek by the Post editors; but it went viral on the Internet. The unlearned lesson at the Post is that there is no privacy any more; everything is recorded and inevitably played back at the worst time and under the most degrading circumstances.
Half of Brent's guest list must have recorded the action on their cell phones; there were numerous versions quickly available on line. The most popular version of the scene, however, was an brilliantly edited depiction of the classic tension between the passionate artist-hero and the simpering twit-villain and featured music by Radiohead. It showed mouths moving soundlessly and gestures becoming more animated and climaxed with the kneeing action. The patella to the groin impact was dramatically repeated, each time in slower and more exaggerated motion so that in the final repeat the viewers could fully experience the pain of exploding testicles. The last desperate action of the apparently dying villain was to crawl to the hero's feet and then sink his fangs into the vulnerable flesh of his calf. The bite would have done credit to any vampire movie director. It was impossible for viewers not to feel a triumphant frisson as the closing kick to the critc's teeth shattered a few of them. That part of the video was faked, but it looked completely authentic.
This all served to revive public interest in Brent's recent notoriety and in the fate of Apartment C. Gossip columns had fun with the story and the eventual notoriety forced the Post to cover it. Some tasteful but hot-looking photographs of Charles made the nature of his relationship with Brent obvious to all. And in case someone somewhere missed the hints, late night TV comedians made it explicit.
While it's possible for most officeholders and public officials to lead openly homosexual lives in Washington, that works only so long as the details of their lives stay out of the public eye. Except for Clinton, professional survival is not possible when the people involved become jokes. The trustees of the Smithsonian could not tolerate the Institution itself becoming a joke, so Brent was fired. Officially, the action was a resignation, of course; but that fooled no one. His life as a pariah began.
All publicity, however, is good for something. In Tin Man's case, his website appearances became even more popular. Slightly edited versions of his porn were included in some college psychology courses. He made appearances on daytime television. Even his art work began seeing increased sales. The most profitable result was a model of his dick. It wasn't used as a Dildo instead, its modest size made in a perfect desk accessory for the edgier folks, as a paper weight or just a conversation starter.
It the critic's case, his new dentures gave a distinctive whistling to his formal speech. While many speakers try to avoid that sort of audience distraction, the whistling provided a constant reminder of the circumstances of his encounter with Tin Man's boot. It provoked countless academic discussions of methods and effects of public criticism. Although artists shunned him, the critic was in great demand on the lecture circuit. He never said so but he allowed people to believe that he had had a relationship with Charles before Brent. The idea that he could attract the interest of a hottie like Charles, encouraged other hotties like Charles to see what they could cook up. Consequently, the critic's love life went from moribund to much more active, although as a rule the hotties wanted to check out his wallet before they checked out anything else.
In Lucky's case, having Apartment C's fate back in the public's eye was a bonanza. It did not get him the huge donations that all museum directors hope for. It got him a torrent of little ones. The beauty of small donors is their ability to enlist the participation of large donors. Having several thousand donors provides instant cachet and respectability to a new museum and its fledgling director.
Things were definitely looking up. Lucky was happy and Marjorie Merridell was happy; but that came later. First of all, Al was happy.
Al awoke in Georgetown Hospital with Lucky dozing in a chair by the side of her bed. The outline of the room gradually became distinct and she saw Lucky at the side of the bed. She knew immediately it was a hospital room. Events came back to her - the party - the pain. She felt her belly. It was somewhat smaller, as if the baby had shrunk. She felt panic.
“Lucky!”
“Wh-what?” Lucky opened his eyes. “Al, you're awake!”
“Obviously. What's going on?”
“You are the mother of a beautiful little girl. She's a little premature, but she's doing alright. On a ventilator for now. The doctor is very positive.”
“What? I still feel pregnant.”
“Yeah. I was surprised how big you still are. You don't just snap back to normal, I guess. That's what the nurse told me. It takes a while.”
“I want to get up. Where's Debbie, anyway?”
“She's home with your other baby. You want to see your baby? She's cute. I think they will bring her to you.” Lucky put his hand on Al's arm as an assurance not a restraint.
“No. I want to get up because I have to pee.”
“Um, I think you're hooked up so that's taken care of. Let me get the nurse. He'll explain.”
“HE?”
“Art. His name is Art. I think he's very competent.”
Al lay back on the pillow and sighed. “Art the Nurse. And YOU think he's competent … Is he also good looking?”
Lucky squeezed the nurse's call button. “You can see for yourself.”
Alfred called Tom during his lunch hour. “How are you?” It seemed an oddly formal greeting for someone who taught me everything I know, Alfred thought.
“I'm the same, more or less. A couple days older. Will you come to London next weekend? A friend from California is here and he's getting engaged and there's a party. And the next day, Sunday, Alistair and Edmund are having one and they especially want you to come. And I want you to come, too, of course.”
“I think so … I need to check on a few things. I'll call you back tonight, ok?”
I should have just said yes, Alfred thought. Straight out, yes. Or no. Now I have to tell Daniel about Tom and/or Tom about Daniel. Which is which, Alfred dithered. When I'm with Tom … I just want to spend days on my back getting fucked. And when I'm with Daniel … I want to take charge and he's so cute when he lets me. Damn …
Alfred climbed the flight of stairs and knocked, wondering why Daniel hadn't answered his phone. He decided then and there to be totally honest with Daniel. I'll tell him everything and see what he says. I'll let him decide. Him? Or Tom? Or both? Both! Jeez, what am I thinking?
“Alfred,” Liam commented evenly. “Come in. Did Daniel know you were coming? He's gone with his father to look at a horse.”
“A horse? Is he a horse expert?”
“You want a beer? I'm having one.”
Liam got another beer and they sat in front of the television which was showing a worldwide recap of the week in football. “Horse expert? I dunno. He just said his father wanted to look at a horse and he was going along. He should be back late I think, if you want to wait.”
They sat and watched and sipped, with an occasional comment on one match or another. Finally Liam blurted out his curiosity. “You and Danny … are … a couple?”
“Kind of, I guess. Nothing formal. Just ...” Alfred shrugged not sure how much to tell Liam or how sympathetic Liam might be.
“Danny and me … mates since we were born. And suddenly he's doing stuff with you and I never thought … I never thought he'd fancy somebody … like you.”
“Like me?” Alfred asked, already knowing exactly what Liam meant.
“You know …” Liam spoke tentatively and then decided to call a spade a shovel. “Yes, like you. Gay. I'm not saying anything … bad, exactly … but … I just never figured … I thought I knew him really well. And now he's … different. He was almost my brother and now I don't know him at all.”
“He's not wearing dresses or anything.”
“No,” Liam admitted.
“He's not flaunting anything, is he?”
“No, but he's not hiding anything either. He talks about you just like you're a girl he's seeing … or he's a girl you're seeing … or ...”
“Neither one of us is a girl. And he's not going to start acting like one either. It's got nothing to do with anybody being a girl.” Alfred was firm on that point.
They went back to watching and sipping. And then Alfred spoke up. “He talks about you like you're his oldest and best friend and always will be.”
“He talks about me?”
“He mentions you. Always good. Always his mate. Always somebody he likes a lot.”
“Like what? What does he say?”
“He joked that you're jealous because he's getting laid and you aren't.”
Liam wasn't sure how to take that. Finally he said, “Well, he's right about me not getting anything.”
“You want to meet a couple of girls I know? They're unattached, very fine looking, and … if they like you, they might be willing ...”
Liam immediately became flustered and invented a half dozen reasons why he couldn't meet after work for a drink with China's friends.
“No pressure,” Alfred assured him.
Again the conversation lapsed while they watched a discussion of the Canaries chances. Consensus said injuries would decide future matches. Then Liam stirred.
“You and Alfred … do you …?” He pantomimed holding a cock in his fist and sucking it.
“You don't really want to know the details, do you?” Alfred answered. “We do whatever we both enjoy. Nobody forced anybody to do anything.”
“I just can't picture him doing … anything. I've seen him with a stiffy and all … but I can't see ...”
“Don't think about it.”
“I can't help it, Alfred. I heard the two of you the other night. Somebody was getting fucked. And liked it. Liked it a lot. It made me hard.” Liam took Alfred's hand and put it on his cock. “Like now ... It's all I've been thinking about.”
Alfred knew he should leave right then, but he didn't. Liam was in fact hard. And he wasn't huge or anything. He'd be a perfect package for sucking. Liam's hand still held his against the needy cock. He squeezed and watched for a reaction from Liam.
Liam groaned and pulled his pants down. They were what Americans would call sweat pants, thick flannel with an elastic waistband. The stretchy pants came down easily exposing his erect cock, curved up against his stomach. It wasn't long; but it was thick and Liam thrust against Alfred's hand. It was perfect for sucking, and after the briefest hesitation Alfred discovered it was a nice mouthful with exquisite sensitivity. Liam responded with another groan and pumped every possible centimeter into Alfred's mouth. He quivered when Alfred cupped his balls and then gently tugged. Alfred could taste his juices as they started to leak. He pulled back.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he questioned Liam.
“Do it,” Liam answered determinedly pushing Alfred's head toward his cock. He came quickly and then dashed for the toilet. While he was away, Alfred opened two more beers and had one ready for Liam when he came back.
“I don't know what to say … I … I ...” Liam stuttered. He took a swig from the bottle.
“”My turn,” Alfred said and pushed Liam toward his cock. He unzipped and pulled out his cock for Liam. Liam hesitated and Alfred insisted, “My turn, Liam.”
Liam was a lousy cocksucker. He gave it a decent try, but it was unsatisfactory for Alfred. Nobody is born knowing how, but at least he tried. It was much harder talking him into ass play, but his cock got hard again and he would probably have tried anything if it meant Alfred would suck him off a second time. So he ended up naked, lying on the sofa face down with Alfred straddling him. A gentle neck massage turned into more. Alfred's cock was slowly but surely insinuating itself between Liam's tightly clenched ass cheeks. Liam gasped when he felt the first serious thrust. He whimpered when he felt the head go in; but he didn't say stop.
“That's it. That's right. Breathe. I'll go slow,” Alfred encouraged. He gained complete entry and lay still while Liam tried to accept his first cock.
“It hurts, Alfred.”
“We don't have to do this ...”
“No, go ahead.”
Alfred tried gently pumping but Liam gasped louder. It was obviously painful but also compelling. “No, don't stop. Do it.” It was Liam's turn to insist.
Liam's continuing whimpers and groans masked the sounds of Daniel's arrival.
“Now I know how Dylan felt,” said Daniel, not shouting but loud enough to be heard over Liam's cries. He turned and left, closing the door carefully until it clicked.
“Oh shit,” cried Liam and tried to wiggle away from Alfred.
“Just a little more. Just let me finish,” Alfred pleaded right before he began gushing and ramming Liam frantically. Liam sighed and let it happen, ignoring the pain.
When Alfred pulled out Liam rolled over and repeated his ”Oh, shit,” comment.
“We're not done yet,” Alfred told Liam and sucked him off again.
When that was over Liam just lay back panting. He made no move to cover himself or get up. He couldn't talk, he just lay panting for a while. Alfred had never previously noticed how attractive he was - not his face, which was ordinary, but his body. Slim and fit, stomach beautifully concave, chest beautifully convex. His cock lay limply over his balls. One leg was splayed to the side, offering a view of his ass crack. Finally Liam took a deep breath and sat up. “Want to take a shower? I do. No, maybe you better not. I'd just get fucked again, wouldn't I?”
“Not unless you wanted to,” Alfred suggested as he dressed.
“I didn't like it when it was happening, but now I'm glad I did it. Now I know what Danny's feeling.” Liam got slowly to his feet giving Alfred the chance to further admire his body. “Laid, relaid, and parlayed,” he sighed. “What's Daniel going to say?”
“No idea,” Alfred shrugged. He slipped on his shoes and stood. “He'll probably blame me. He probably should blame me. Tell him I forced you.”
“He'd never believe that. One question before you go,” Liam said. “Do you and Danny kiss?”
“Yes.”
“I want to try that, too, ok?”
On a hunch, Alfred entered the first pub he came to after leaving Liam. Daniel was there. They didn't fight. It was just one punch. Daniel's right to Alfred's jaw. No drama. Alfred left the pub.
Phil spoke quietly into his cell phone to Florian Obstbauer. “He got into the truck to check out the cargo. Then the driver came out of the Voere factory, before we could react, he closed the truck, locked it and drove away. I think Alex is on his way to Slovakia. The truck had a sign that said 'Strazske, Slovakia' on the side. I couldn't read the rest.” Florian asked for a detailed description of the truck which Phil provided. “It's white with two maroon stripes running around the bottom of the cargo box. There's a company name also in maroon - SSM, I think, and Strazske, Slovakia on the side. The license plate is BL788-something. I didn't get the rest. Should I call Dimitri?”
“No. I'll take care of that. I'll meet you in about two hours. Where are you?”
“I'm at the Hotel Grisela. We were supposed to sing after dinner. I'll be in the bar.”
As Phil walked back to the Grisela he realized he'd need a story to account for Alex's disappearance. He went over the day in his mind. He and Alex had gone back to the Voere Works to try out a rifle on their indoor range. Lothar was happy to see them and took them to the range.
“You kept me out late. Marcus and I had a wonderful time and enjoyed your singing.” Lothar held his head as if he might have a hangover, but that wasn't believable. He and Marcus had had only two beers each.
After the night of music ended, Alex had joked to Phil when they went to bed, “I think Lothar and Marcus are lovers and don't know it. Have you ever seen two people hang on each other's words like that? They're like you and me, Phil, minus all the fucking.”
Phil wasn't prepared to believe that until Marcus joined them on the way to the range. Lothar's face lit up like it was Christmas. Marcus returned the reaction in his own quieter way.
Marcus had brought two rifles and a box of thirty caliber rounds. “The 30's rounds are bigger than the 22's. It will be easier for you, I think,” he explained to Phil, the neophyte at shooting. He gave Phil some more instructions and then had him shoot standing. He corrected Phil's posture. “Tuck in the arsch more,” he said, using the German word and patting Phil's butt until Phil assumed the correct stance.
They each fired ten rounds standing, then kneeling, then prone. “Excellent,” Marcus commented when it was over.
“Now you see the value of a Voere,” Lothar said. Then he added, “Ach, Alex, there is our scrap buyer. Do you want to talk to him?” Lothar pointed to a man in a maroon and white jacket with some kind of corporate logo on the back.
“No thanks, Lothar. You explained it all. Thanks for the great day. Will you come and hear us again?”
“Ya, sure.” Lothar looked to Marcus and got a nod. “We'll be happy to see you.”
As Phil left Marcus patted his butt again and said, “Nicht vergesse, don't forget, tuck in the arsch.”
“He can't keep his hands off you,” Alex joked as they walked to the street. “Now do you believe me about the two of them.”
“Wait. Why are you going that way?” Alex had turned the wrong way for their trip back.
“I want to get a look at the scrap dealer's truck.”
The truck with the same logo that the scrap buyer's jacket bore was parked by itself near a loading dock. The rear curtain door to the cargo bay stood open.
“Alex, no!”
“I just want to get a look at what's in it.” Alex swung himself up onto the bed of the truck and disappeared into the bay.
At that point, things went wrong. The last Phil saw, the truck with Alex now part of its cargo turned left heading for the Inntal Autobahn and presumably Slovakia. As Phil walked back to the hotel he began to realize that Alex could be in more trouble than they ever imagined. What do I tell Sepi, he wondered. I can't tell the truth, It would involve the police and we're supposed to stay as far from them as possible. Before he got as far as the river, Phil realized something else. He missed Alex already. He couldn't help but worry more.
He got to the hotel but couldn't find Sepi. He found Andi and his face betrayed his concern. Andi wanted to know what was wrong and after some initial stumbles, Phil decided to tell Andi a version of the truth.
“You have to keep quiet, Andi. Alex and I could get in trouble. Maybe thrown out of the country.”
Austria is pretty liberal about some things,” Andi said. “You are worried that you and Alex are …?” Phil looked at him puzzled and Andi clarified, “You and Alex are lovers?”
“Of course we are. You put the beds together for us when we got here.”
“I didn't put the beds together. I thought you did it.”
Phil wasn't going to worry about that now. “Alex was joking around. He hopped on a truck and it drove away. To Slovakia I think.”
“Slovakia,” Andi smiled in admiration. “I've only been to Vienna once and I barely remember it.”
“No, I mean what if he's caught at the border. They'll think he's a smuggler or a thief or something.”
“There is no border with Slovakia. You go if you want to, like going to Kiefersfelden. But … I see. You worry about him.”
“Yes.” Phil realized he was very worried; he remembered that back in Washington Art had planned to kill them both, a risk he ignored at the time. What if the truck driver was part of the gun trading operation? He couldn't tell Andi that part, so he temporized. “I don't know how much money he has or how he'll get back here.”
“Uncle Sepi worries when I go to Salzburg to the cinema. 'Vat vill da Mutti say, Andreas?'”
“Sepi speaks German with a thick accent?” Phil couldn't help laughing at Andi's imitation.
“He speaks Tirolerisch. Same thing. Alex should not have trouble even if he finds himself in Slovakia. We got rid of all the vampires last year. Shipped them to Hollywood.” Andi's humor was helping. It was also very appealing. Andi would make some lucky lover very happy.
That night Phil faced his first solo performance. His initial nervousness dissolved after a beer and some applause. He stuck mostly to country songs that he had sung with Alex and added a few soft rockers from Billy Joel's repertory. At his first break he sat with Florian Obstbauer. Florian pretended to be a fan who bought him a beer.
“That's the story, Florian,” Phill summed up. “I don't know exactly where he has gone or when he'll be back. To be honest, I'm getting more worried by the minute.”
“We have people looking for the truck. You're sure of the description?”
“Yes. Completely. I can see it vividly in my head. Are you looking at the Slovakian border.”
“Not exactly. It's more likely a driver going to Strazske would cross the border south of Bratislava and go through Hungary. The roads are better and less mountainous that way.” Florian hemmed and hawed, obviously unwilling to give Phil many details of the search effort. “Ahhh … Dimitri asked me to give you this book.”
Phil glanced at a slim volume. In the low lighting he couldn't read the title. “Thanks. I need to do my second set. Will I see you again?” Florian shrugged and gave no answer. “Ok, then. Thanks for the beer.”
After Phil's second set he took the gift from Dimitri to his room and read the cover. It was 'The Towers of Trebizond' by Rose Macaulay. What the fuck? Phil questioned; a novel by an Englishwoman – is that some kind of sexual slur? I thought Dimitri was comfortable with Alex and me. Now he's sending me some lady's bodice-ripper for bedtime reading? He put the book on the table next to the bed and went back upstairs for his third set. He was glad when the set was over; his worry for Alex was gnawing.
To occupy himself he helped Andi clean up after closing. Andi tried to talk him out of his funk, but he didn't try very hard. The company was good for both of them. Sepi hung around doing bookwork later than usual; he seemed to be keeping an eye on things. When they were done, Phil felt genuinely tired and looked forward to sleep.
In bed, he picked up the book and began reading. It was the oddest book he had ever read. There was a strange sensibility to the writing. The hero or was it a heroine? and his or her lover were the most sexually ambiguous couple he had ever read about. The obvious choice was the make the narrator a woman and her lover a man, but he couldn't find a personal pronoun of gender anywhere describing them. The obvious choice was probably the right one, but it was certainly open to interpretation. The premise, going to the city of Trebizond on a borrowed camel, was increasingly intriguing, although not intriguing enough to keep Phil awake past the second chapter.
The next day was torture. Phil had nothing to do and lots to worry about. He worried about everything, all centered around losing Alex and never knowing what happened to him. The Heldenorgel recital was a Bach Fugue; two churches Phil passed were conducting funerals; and the midweek crowds in town were small and subdued. At last it was time to sing and that was a disaster, even as Sepi reported it.
“That was the most mournful music I've ever heard, although I must say we sold a lot of beer. I hope there are no suicides tonight.” Again Sepi hung around while Andi and Phil cleaned up. Phil retired to his room as tired as the night before but when he got into bed all his worries came back to him. At my age, he thought, I'm alone and about to cry myself to sleep. He picked up the book and read some more.
The heroine, he still wasn't one hundred percent sure of that, was fairly depressed herself and in a love affair that seemed to be going nowhere. Physically, however, she was progressing toward Trebizond, as the modern Turkish town of Trabzon was called in the fifteenth century. Trebizond became the seat of the Byzantine Empire after the fall of Constantinople. In Phil's schoolbook version of history, that empire ended the day the Turks took the capital. Not so; the empire moved to Trebizond and persisted for another couple hundred years, completely unnoticed by Phil's high school history teacher. Phil was captivated by his who-knew moment, distracted by the humor of the book. His reading was interrupted by a very quiet knock, one a sleeper could ignore. It was Andi with a bottle of something and two glasses.
“She's very pretty, Heiko. Beautiful, really.” Tom raised his glass to Heiko. Crescentia Prinzessin von Tuttingen who was talking to Alistair smiled at the two men as if she knew she was the topic of their discussion.
“She is,” Heiko admitted. It was his first outing with his prospective bride since being reintroduced at his cousin's house. His cousin's party of the night before was not an engagement party, but it had introduced them as a couple to the attendees.
Alistair and Edmund were used to minor nobility hanging around but a genuine princess, even if her principality had vanished almost a century before, was a dazzling addition to the afternoon. She was stylishly dressed without looking trendy and spoke British English with just the hint of an accent. She had a job, which she pretended was just something to fill her time; but in fact she was a competent young graduate of the London School of Economics who was employed at a boutique hedge fund that specialized in government bonds. She crossed the crowded veranda.
“Are you two conspiring?” she asked, smiling especially at Tom.
Heiko brightened at her approach and spoke low. “Say nothing, Zenzi. We're planning to invade Denmark Thursday.”
“Just the two of you? Or are Alistair and Edmund part of it? If you need financing, I can work on it; but floating a bond issue in four days will be dicey.”
“Maybe Alfred will come along,” Tom said noticing Alfred and Edmund talking.
“The Danes are so cooperative; a small group should be enough,” Heiko injected wanting to keep Alfred out of the discussion.
Tom left the two of them and drifted toward the bar. He was jealous of the spontaneous friendliness Heiko and Zenzi had developed for each other; it wasn't love by any means but it was a shared regard that was warm and considerate. It was so unlike his disintegrating relationship with Alfred.
“Do you have to tell me everything?” Tom complained to Alfred the night before.
“I thought it was a funny story. Liam thought it was funny,” Alfred answered defensively. “Although Daniel didn't much,” he added. “Daniel didn't much at all.” A slight bruise on Alfred's jawline showed just how unamused Daniel had been.
“We barely finish a spectacular love making session and you burst out laughing, and tell me how you just screwed your best friend's best friend … At least I thought it was spectacular.”
“Tommy, it was spectacular. You know how I love being in bed with you. You're the only one who ever fucks me … almost.”
“Almost?”
“Well, there was this guy in a flower shop … Crispin … you met him ...”
“I don't want to hear about it, Alfred.”
Alfred did his best to make up for Tom's disappointment and Alfred's best was pretty spectacular all by itself. Tom, always good for two times, fucked him again and then, without any real justification, felt used afterward.
“Am I just a good fuck to you?”
“Tom, you're so much more than that. You are the best man I've ever been with. There's nobody like you. I look forward to every time we can get together.”
Tom let himself get pulled into an embrace. Alfred's kisses were genuine and passionate. The boy just has the attention span of a butterfly, Tom thought. Boy. I think of him as a boy.
A description of the fight at Brent's house between Tin Man Arnstein and the art critic of the Washington Post was buried in Section B midweek by the Post editors; but it went viral on the Internet. The unlearned lesson at the Post is that there is no privacy any more; everything is recorded and inevitably played back at the worst time and under the most degrading circumstances.
Half of Brent's guest list must have recorded the action on their cell phones; there were numerous versions quickly available on line. The most popular version of the scene, however, was an brilliantly edited depiction of the classic tension between the passionate artist-hero and the simpering twit-villain and featured music by Radiohead. It showed mouths moving soundlessly and gestures becoming more animated and climaxed with the kneeing action. The patella to the groin impact was dramatically repeated, each time in slower and more exaggerated motion so that in the final repeat the viewers could fully experience the pain of exploding testicles. The last desperate action of the apparently dying villain was to crawl to the hero's feet and then sink his fangs into the vulnerable flesh of his calf. The bite would have done credit to any vampire movie director. It was impossible for viewers not to feel a triumphant frisson as the closing kick to the critc's teeth shattered a few of them. That part of the video was faked, but it looked completely authentic.
This all served to revive public interest in Brent's recent notoriety and in the fate of Apartment C. Gossip columns had fun with the story and the eventual notoriety forced the Post to cover it. Some tasteful but hot-looking photographs of Charles made the nature of his relationship with Brent obvious to all. And in case someone somewhere missed the hints, late night TV comedians made it explicit.
While it's possible for most officeholders and public officials to lead openly homosexual lives in Washington, that works only so long as the details of their lives stay out of the public eye. Except for Clinton, professional survival is not possible when the people involved become jokes. The trustees of the Smithsonian could not tolerate the Institution itself becoming a joke, so Brent was fired. Officially, the action was a resignation, of course; but that fooled no one. His life as a pariah began.
All publicity, however, is good for something. In Tin Man's case, his website appearances became even more popular. Slightly edited versions of his porn were included in some college psychology courses. He made appearances on daytime television. Even his art work began seeing increased sales. The most profitable result was a model of his dick. It wasn't used as a Dildo instead, its modest size made in a perfect desk accessory for the edgier folks, as a paper weight or just a conversation starter.
It the critic's case, his new dentures gave a distinctive whistling to his formal speech. While many speakers try to avoid that sort of audience distraction, the whistling provided a constant reminder of the circumstances of his encounter with Tin Man's boot. It provoked countless academic discussions of methods and effects of public criticism. Although artists shunned him, the critic was in great demand on the lecture circuit. He never said so but he allowed people to believe that he had had a relationship with Charles before Brent. The idea that he could attract the interest of a hottie like Charles, encouraged other hotties like Charles to see what they could cook up. Consequently, the critic's love life went from moribund to much more active, although as a rule the hotties wanted to check out his wallet before they checked out anything else.
In Lucky's case, having Apartment C's fate back in the public's eye was a bonanza. It did not get him the huge donations that all museum directors hope for. It got him a torrent of little ones. The beauty of small donors is their ability to enlist the participation of large donors. Having several thousand donors provides instant cachet and respectability to a new museum and its fledgling director.
Things were definitely looking up. Lucky was happy and Marjorie Merridell was happy; but that came later. First of all, Al was happy.
Al awoke in Georgetown Hospital with Lucky dozing in a chair by the side of her bed. The outline of the room gradually became distinct and she saw Lucky at the side of the bed. She knew immediately it was a hospital room. Events came back to her - the party - the pain. She felt her belly. It was somewhat smaller, as if the baby had shrunk. She felt panic.
“Lucky!”
“Wh-what?” Lucky opened his eyes. “Al, you're awake!”
“Obviously. What's going on?”
“You are the mother of a beautiful little girl. She's a little premature, but she's doing alright. On a ventilator for now. The doctor is very positive.”
“What? I still feel pregnant.”
“Yeah. I was surprised how big you still are. You don't just snap back to normal, I guess. That's what the nurse told me. It takes a while.”
“I want to get up. Where's Debbie, anyway?”
“She's home with your other baby. You want to see your baby? She's cute. I think they will bring her to you.” Lucky put his hand on Al's arm as an assurance not a restraint.
“No. I want to get up because I have to pee.”
“Um, I think you're hooked up so that's taken care of. Let me get the nurse. He'll explain.”
“HE?”
“Art. His name is Art. I think he's very competent.”
Al lay back on the pillow and sighed. “Art the Nurse. And YOU think he's competent … Is he also good looking?”
Lucky squeezed the nurse's call button. “You can see for yourself.”
Alfred called Tom during his lunch hour. “How are you?” It seemed an oddly formal greeting for someone who taught me everything I know, Alfred thought.
“I'm the same, more or less. A couple days older. Will you come to London next weekend? A friend from California is here and he's getting engaged and there's a party. And the next day, Sunday, Alistair and Edmund are having one and they especially want you to come. And I want you to come, too, of course.”
“I think so … I need to check on a few things. I'll call you back tonight, ok?”
I should have just said yes, Alfred thought. Straight out, yes. Or no. Now I have to tell Daniel about Tom and/or Tom about Daniel. Which is which, Alfred dithered. When I'm with Tom … I just want to spend days on my back getting fucked. And when I'm with Daniel … I want to take charge and he's so cute when he lets me. Damn …
Alfred climbed the flight of stairs and knocked, wondering why Daniel hadn't answered his phone. He decided then and there to be totally honest with Daniel. I'll tell him everything and see what he says. I'll let him decide. Him? Or Tom? Or both? Both! Jeez, what am I thinking?
“Alfred,” Liam commented evenly. “Come in. Did Daniel know you were coming? He's gone with his father to look at a horse.”
“A horse? Is he a horse expert?”
“You want a beer? I'm having one.”
Liam got another beer and they sat in front of the television which was showing a worldwide recap of the week in football. “Horse expert? I dunno. He just said his father wanted to look at a horse and he was going along. He should be back late I think, if you want to wait.”
They sat and watched and sipped, with an occasional comment on one match or another. Finally Liam blurted out his curiosity. “You and Danny … are … a couple?”
“Kind of, I guess. Nothing formal. Just ...” Alfred shrugged not sure how much to tell Liam or how sympathetic Liam might be.
“Danny and me … mates since we were born. And suddenly he's doing stuff with you and I never thought … I never thought he'd fancy somebody … like you.”
“Like me?” Alfred asked, already knowing exactly what Liam meant.
“You know …” Liam spoke tentatively and then decided to call a spade a shovel. “Yes, like you. Gay. I'm not saying anything … bad, exactly … but … I just never figured … I thought I knew him really well. And now he's … different. He was almost my brother and now I don't know him at all.”
“He's not wearing dresses or anything.”
“No,” Liam admitted.
“He's not flaunting anything, is he?”
“No, but he's not hiding anything either. He talks about you just like you're a girl he's seeing … or he's a girl you're seeing … or ...”
“Neither one of us is a girl. And he's not going to start acting like one either. It's got nothing to do with anybody being a girl.” Alfred was firm on that point.
They went back to watching and sipping. And then Alfred spoke up. “He talks about you like you're his oldest and best friend and always will be.”
“He talks about me?”
“He mentions you. Always good. Always his mate. Always somebody he likes a lot.”
“Like what? What does he say?”
“He joked that you're jealous because he's getting laid and you aren't.”
Liam wasn't sure how to take that. Finally he said, “Well, he's right about me not getting anything.”
“You want to meet a couple of girls I know? They're unattached, very fine looking, and … if they like you, they might be willing ...”
Liam immediately became flustered and invented a half dozen reasons why he couldn't meet after work for a drink with China's friends.
“No pressure,” Alfred assured him.
Again the conversation lapsed while they watched a discussion of the Canaries chances. Consensus said injuries would decide future matches. Then Liam stirred.
“You and Alfred … do you …?” He pantomimed holding a cock in his fist and sucking it.
“You don't really want to know the details, do you?” Alfred answered. “We do whatever we both enjoy. Nobody forced anybody to do anything.”
“I just can't picture him doing … anything. I've seen him with a stiffy and all … but I can't see ...”
“Don't think about it.”
“I can't help it, Alfred. I heard the two of you the other night. Somebody was getting fucked. And liked it. Liked it a lot. It made me hard.” Liam took Alfred's hand and put it on his cock. “Like now ... It's all I've been thinking about.”
Alfred knew he should leave right then, but he didn't. Liam was in fact hard. And he wasn't huge or anything. He'd be a perfect package for sucking. Liam's hand still held his against the needy cock. He squeezed and watched for a reaction from Liam.
Liam groaned and pulled his pants down. They were what Americans would call sweat pants, thick flannel with an elastic waistband. The stretchy pants came down easily exposing his erect cock, curved up against his stomach. It wasn't long; but it was thick and Liam thrust against Alfred's hand. It was perfect for sucking, and after the briefest hesitation Alfred discovered it was a nice mouthful with exquisite sensitivity. Liam responded with another groan and pumped every possible centimeter into Alfred's mouth. He quivered when Alfred cupped his balls and then gently tugged. Alfred could taste his juices as they started to leak. He pulled back.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he questioned Liam.
“Do it,” Liam answered determinedly pushing Alfred's head toward his cock. He came quickly and then dashed for the toilet. While he was away, Alfred opened two more beers and had one ready for Liam when he came back.
“I don't know what to say … I … I ...” Liam stuttered. He took a swig from the bottle.
“”My turn,” Alfred said and pushed Liam toward his cock. He unzipped and pulled out his cock for Liam. Liam hesitated and Alfred insisted, “My turn, Liam.”
Liam was a lousy cocksucker. He gave it a decent try, but it was unsatisfactory for Alfred. Nobody is born knowing how, but at least he tried. It was much harder talking him into ass play, but his cock got hard again and he would probably have tried anything if it meant Alfred would suck him off a second time. So he ended up naked, lying on the sofa face down with Alfred straddling him. A gentle neck massage turned into more. Alfred's cock was slowly but surely insinuating itself between Liam's tightly clenched ass cheeks. Liam gasped when he felt the first serious thrust. He whimpered when he felt the head go in; but he didn't say stop.
“That's it. That's right. Breathe. I'll go slow,” Alfred encouraged. He gained complete entry and lay still while Liam tried to accept his first cock.
“It hurts, Alfred.”
“We don't have to do this ...”
“No, go ahead.”
Alfred tried gently pumping but Liam gasped louder. It was obviously painful but also compelling. “No, don't stop. Do it.” It was Liam's turn to insist.
Liam's continuing whimpers and groans masked the sounds of Daniel's arrival.
“Now I know how Dylan felt,” said Daniel, not shouting but loud enough to be heard over Liam's cries. He turned and left, closing the door carefully until it clicked.
“Oh shit,” cried Liam and tried to wiggle away from Alfred.
“Just a little more. Just let me finish,” Alfred pleaded right before he began gushing and ramming Liam frantically. Liam sighed and let it happen, ignoring the pain.
When Alfred pulled out Liam rolled over and repeated his ”Oh, shit,” comment.
“We're not done yet,” Alfred told Liam and sucked him off again.
When that was over Liam just lay back panting. He made no move to cover himself or get up. He couldn't talk, he just lay panting for a while. Alfred had never previously noticed how attractive he was - not his face, which was ordinary, but his body. Slim and fit, stomach beautifully concave, chest beautifully convex. His cock lay limply over his balls. One leg was splayed to the side, offering a view of his ass crack. Finally Liam took a deep breath and sat up. “Want to take a shower? I do. No, maybe you better not. I'd just get fucked again, wouldn't I?”
“Not unless you wanted to,” Alfred suggested as he dressed.
“I didn't like it when it was happening, but now I'm glad I did it. Now I know what Danny's feeling.” Liam got slowly to his feet giving Alfred the chance to further admire his body. “Laid, relaid, and parlayed,” he sighed. “What's Daniel going to say?”
“No idea,” Alfred shrugged. He slipped on his shoes and stood. “He'll probably blame me. He probably should blame me. Tell him I forced you.”
“He'd never believe that. One question before you go,” Liam said. “Do you and Danny kiss?”
“Yes.”
“I want to try that, too, ok?”
On a hunch, Alfred entered the first pub he came to after leaving Liam. Daniel was there. They didn't fight. It was just one punch. Daniel's right to Alfred's jaw. No drama. Alfred left the pub.
Phil spoke quietly into his cell phone to Florian Obstbauer. “He got into the truck to check out the cargo. Then the driver came out of the Voere factory, before we could react, he closed the truck, locked it and drove away. I think Alex is on his way to Slovakia. The truck had a sign that said 'Strazske, Slovakia' on the side. I couldn't read the rest.” Florian asked for a detailed description of the truck which Phil provided. “It's white with two maroon stripes running around the bottom of the cargo box. There's a company name also in maroon - SSM, I think, and Strazske, Slovakia on the side. The license plate is BL788-something. I didn't get the rest. Should I call Dimitri?”
“No. I'll take care of that. I'll meet you in about two hours. Where are you?”
“I'm at the Hotel Grisela. We were supposed to sing after dinner. I'll be in the bar.”
As Phil walked back to the Grisela he realized he'd need a story to account for Alex's disappearance. He went over the day in his mind. He and Alex had gone back to the Voere Works to try out a rifle on their indoor range. Lothar was happy to see them and took them to the range.
“You kept me out late. Marcus and I had a wonderful time and enjoyed your singing.” Lothar held his head as if he might have a hangover, but that wasn't believable. He and Marcus had had only two beers each.
After the night of music ended, Alex had joked to Phil when they went to bed, “I think Lothar and Marcus are lovers and don't know it. Have you ever seen two people hang on each other's words like that? They're like you and me, Phil, minus all the fucking.”
Phil wasn't prepared to believe that until Marcus joined them on the way to the range. Lothar's face lit up like it was Christmas. Marcus returned the reaction in his own quieter way.
Marcus had brought two rifles and a box of thirty caliber rounds. “The 30's rounds are bigger than the 22's. It will be easier for you, I think,” he explained to Phil, the neophyte at shooting. He gave Phil some more instructions and then had him shoot standing. He corrected Phil's posture. “Tuck in the arsch more,” he said, using the German word and patting Phil's butt until Phil assumed the correct stance.
They each fired ten rounds standing, then kneeling, then prone. “Excellent,” Marcus commented when it was over.
“Now you see the value of a Voere,” Lothar said. Then he added, “Ach, Alex, there is our scrap buyer. Do you want to talk to him?” Lothar pointed to a man in a maroon and white jacket with some kind of corporate logo on the back.
“No thanks, Lothar. You explained it all. Thanks for the great day. Will you come and hear us again?”
“Ya, sure.” Lothar looked to Marcus and got a nod. “We'll be happy to see you.”
As Phil left Marcus patted his butt again and said, “Nicht vergesse, don't forget, tuck in the arsch.”
“He can't keep his hands off you,” Alex joked as they walked to the street. “Now do you believe me about the two of them.”
“Wait. Why are you going that way?” Alex had turned the wrong way for their trip back.
“I want to get a look at the scrap dealer's truck.”
The truck with the same logo that the scrap buyer's jacket bore was parked by itself near a loading dock. The rear curtain door to the cargo bay stood open.
“Alex, no!”
“I just want to get a look at what's in it.” Alex swung himself up onto the bed of the truck and disappeared into the bay.
At that point, things went wrong. The last Phil saw, the truck with Alex now part of its cargo turned left heading for the Inntal Autobahn and presumably Slovakia. As Phil walked back to the hotel he began to realize that Alex could be in more trouble than they ever imagined. What do I tell Sepi, he wondered. I can't tell the truth, It would involve the police and we're supposed to stay as far from them as possible. Before he got as far as the river, Phil realized something else. He missed Alex already. He couldn't help but worry more.
He got to the hotel but couldn't find Sepi. He found Andi and his face betrayed his concern. Andi wanted to know what was wrong and after some initial stumbles, Phil decided to tell Andi a version of the truth.
“You have to keep quiet, Andi. Alex and I could get in trouble. Maybe thrown out of the country.”
Austria is pretty liberal about some things,” Andi said. “You are worried that you and Alex are …?” Phil looked at him puzzled and Andi clarified, “You and Alex are lovers?”
“Of course we are. You put the beds together for us when we got here.”
“I didn't put the beds together. I thought you did it.”
Phil wasn't going to worry about that now. “Alex was joking around. He hopped on a truck and it drove away. To Slovakia I think.”
“Slovakia,” Andi smiled in admiration. “I've only been to Vienna once and I barely remember it.”
“No, I mean what if he's caught at the border. They'll think he's a smuggler or a thief or something.”
“There is no border with Slovakia. You go if you want to, like going to Kiefersfelden. But … I see. You worry about him.”
“Yes.” Phil realized he was very worried; he remembered that back in Washington Art had planned to kill them both, a risk he ignored at the time. What if the truck driver was part of the gun trading operation? He couldn't tell Andi that part, so he temporized. “I don't know how much money he has or how he'll get back here.”
“Uncle Sepi worries when I go to Salzburg to the cinema. 'Vat vill da Mutti say, Andreas?'”
“Sepi speaks German with a thick accent?” Phil couldn't help laughing at Andi's imitation.
“He speaks Tirolerisch. Same thing. Alex should not have trouble even if he finds himself in Slovakia. We got rid of all the vampires last year. Shipped them to Hollywood.” Andi's humor was helping. It was also very appealing. Andi would make some lucky lover very happy.
That night Phil faced his first solo performance. His initial nervousness dissolved after a beer and some applause. He stuck mostly to country songs that he had sung with Alex and added a few soft rockers from Billy Joel's repertory. At his first break he sat with Florian Obstbauer. Florian pretended to be a fan who bought him a beer.
“That's the story, Florian,” Phill summed up. “I don't know exactly where he has gone or when he'll be back. To be honest, I'm getting more worried by the minute.”
“We have people looking for the truck. You're sure of the description?”
“Yes. Completely. I can see it vividly in my head. Are you looking at the Slovakian border.”
“Not exactly. It's more likely a driver going to Strazske would cross the border south of Bratislava and go through Hungary. The roads are better and less mountainous that way.” Florian hemmed and hawed, obviously unwilling to give Phil many details of the search effort. “Ahhh … Dimitri asked me to give you this book.”
Phil glanced at a slim volume. In the low lighting he couldn't read the title. “Thanks. I need to do my second set. Will I see you again?” Florian shrugged and gave no answer. “Ok, then. Thanks for the beer.”
After Phil's second set he took the gift from Dimitri to his room and read the cover. It was 'The Towers of Trebizond' by Rose Macaulay. What the fuck? Phil questioned; a novel by an Englishwoman – is that some kind of sexual slur? I thought Dimitri was comfortable with Alex and me. Now he's sending me some lady's bodice-ripper for bedtime reading? He put the book on the table next to the bed and went back upstairs for his third set. He was glad when the set was over; his worry for Alex was gnawing.
To occupy himself he helped Andi clean up after closing. Andi tried to talk him out of his funk, but he didn't try very hard. The company was good for both of them. Sepi hung around doing bookwork later than usual; he seemed to be keeping an eye on things. When they were done, Phil felt genuinely tired and looked forward to sleep.
In bed, he picked up the book and began reading. It was the oddest book he had ever read. There was a strange sensibility to the writing. The hero or was it a heroine? and his or her lover were the most sexually ambiguous couple he had ever read about. The obvious choice was the make the narrator a woman and her lover a man, but he couldn't find a personal pronoun of gender anywhere describing them. The obvious choice was probably the right one, but it was certainly open to interpretation. The premise, going to the city of Trebizond on a borrowed camel, was increasingly intriguing, although not intriguing enough to keep Phil awake past the second chapter.
The next day was torture. Phil had nothing to do and lots to worry about. He worried about everything, all centered around losing Alex and never knowing what happened to him. The Heldenorgel recital was a Bach Fugue; two churches Phil passed were conducting funerals; and the midweek crowds in town were small and subdued. At last it was time to sing and that was a disaster, even as Sepi reported it.
“That was the most mournful music I've ever heard, although I must say we sold a lot of beer. I hope there are no suicides tonight.” Again Sepi hung around while Andi and Phil cleaned up. Phil retired to his room as tired as the night before but when he got into bed all his worries came back to him. At my age, he thought, I'm alone and about to cry myself to sleep. He picked up the book and read some more.
The heroine, he still wasn't one hundred percent sure of that, was fairly depressed herself and in a love affair that seemed to be going nowhere. Physically, however, she was progressing toward Trebizond, as the modern Turkish town of Trabzon was called in the fifteenth century. Trebizond became the seat of the Byzantine Empire after the fall of Constantinople. In Phil's schoolbook version of history, that empire ended the day the Turks took the capital. Not so; the empire moved to Trebizond and persisted for another couple hundred years, completely unnoticed by Phil's high school history teacher. Phil was captivated by his who-knew moment, distracted by the humor of the book. His reading was interrupted by a very quiet knock, one a sleeper could ignore. It was Andi with a bottle of something and two glasses.
“She's very pretty, Heiko. Beautiful, really.” Tom raised his glass to Heiko. Crescentia Prinzessin von Tuttingen who was talking to Alistair smiled at the two men as if she knew she was the topic of their discussion.
“She is,” Heiko admitted. It was his first outing with his prospective bride since being reintroduced at his cousin's house. His cousin's party of the night before was not an engagement party, but it had introduced them as a couple to the attendees.
Alistair and Edmund were used to minor nobility hanging around but a genuine princess, even if her principality had vanished almost a century before, was a dazzling addition to the afternoon. She was stylishly dressed without looking trendy and spoke British English with just the hint of an accent. She had a job, which she pretended was just something to fill her time; but in fact she was a competent young graduate of the London School of Economics who was employed at a boutique hedge fund that specialized in government bonds. She crossed the crowded veranda.
“Are you two conspiring?” she asked, smiling especially at Tom.
Heiko brightened at her approach and spoke low. “Say nothing, Zenzi. We're planning to invade Denmark Thursday.”
“Just the two of you? Or are Alistair and Edmund part of it? If you need financing, I can work on it; but floating a bond issue in four days will be dicey.”
“Maybe Alfred will come along,” Tom said noticing Alfred and Edmund talking.
“The Danes are so cooperative; a small group should be enough,” Heiko injected wanting to keep Alfred out of the discussion.
Tom left the two of them and drifted toward the bar. He was jealous of the spontaneous friendliness Heiko and Zenzi had developed for each other; it wasn't love by any means but it was a shared regard that was warm and considerate. It was so unlike his disintegrating relationship with Alfred.
“Do you have to tell me everything?” Tom complained to Alfred the night before.
“I thought it was a funny story. Liam thought it was funny,” Alfred answered defensively. “Although Daniel didn't much,” he added. “Daniel didn't much at all.” A slight bruise on Alfred's jawline showed just how unamused Daniel had been.
“We barely finish a spectacular love making session and you burst out laughing, and tell me how you just screwed your best friend's best friend … At least I thought it was spectacular.”
“Tommy, it was spectacular. You know how I love being in bed with you. You're the only one who ever fucks me … almost.”
“Almost?”
“Well, there was this guy in a flower shop … Crispin … you met him ...”
“I don't want to hear about it, Alfred.”
Alfred did his best to make up for Tom's disappointment and Alfred's best was pretty spectacular all by itself. Tom, always good for two times, fucked him again and then, without any real justification, felt used afterward.
“Am I just a good fuck to you?”
“Tom, you're so much more than that. You are the best man I've ever been with. There's nobody like you. I look forward to every time we can get together.”
Tom let himself get pulled into an embrace. Alfred's kisses were genuine and passionate. The boy just has the attention span of a butterfly, Tom thought. Boy. I think of him as a boy.
Rory,
Wow. Just, Wow.
What a phenomenal installment.
The Party appears to have been good for most but, sadly, not for all. Poor Brent.
Bastard "Art Critic."
Poor Tom. Alfred has turned into a nymphomaniac, if that term can accurately be used for him. He's "passionate," at least about the individual events, but he seems to be essentially ambivalent about whom he reaches orgasm with.
The question becomes, now that Liam knows Daniel is interested in M-o-M, will these best buds since diapers become lovers, partners, and more, bidding Alfred a not-so-sweet Adieu?
At least Alfred recognized that he had to pay the piper and went into the bar to take his medicine from Daniel.
Which brings us to Phil and Alex - with Alex locked in a truck headed for Slovakia. And, a certain Austrian Hotel "Boy" named Andi bringing "consolation" to Phil late one night . . .
What is the key to the book? Is there more to it than a socio-political statement veiled under the cover of a novel?
Some secret code?
Some major prose here, sir!
Wow. Just, Wow.
What a phenomenal installment.
The Party appears to have been good for most but, sadly, not for all. Poor Brent.
Bastard "Art Critic."
Poor Tom. Alfred has turned into a nymphomaniac, if that term can accurately be used for him. He's "passionate," at least about the individual events, but he seems to be essentially ambivalent about whom he reaches orgasm with.
The question becomes, now that Liam knows Daniel is interested in M-o-M, will these best buds since diapers become lovers, partners, and more, bidding Alfred a not-so-sweet Adieu?
At least Alfred recognized that he had to pay the piper and went into the bar to take his medicine from Daniel.
Which brings us to Phil and Alex - with Alex locked in a truck headed for Slovakia. And, a certain Austrian Hotel "Boy" named Andi bringing "consolation" to Phil late one night . . .
What is the key to the book? Is there more to it than a socio-political statement veiled under the cover of a novel?
Some secret code?
Some major prose here, sir!
EasyRory
JUB Addict
The book ... it's there for a reason. 
It's also a very enjoyable book, just a little draggy toward the end. Others have noted the sexual ambiguity it contains, but apparently no one thought to ask the author about it. She died in 1958, one of the lesser members of the Bloomsbury set. And weren't THEY sexually ambiguous?
Like "The Screwtape Letters" that Alistair and Edmund were reading, I recommend "The Towers of Trebizond" for your cold winter nights.
It's also a very enjoyable book, just a little draggy toward the end. Others have noted the sexual ambiguity it contains, but apparently no one thought to ask the author about it. She died in 1958, one of the lesser members of the Bloomsbury set. And weren't THEY sexually ambiguous?
Like "The Screwtape Letters" that Alistair and Edmund were reading, I recommend "The Towers of Trebizond" for your cold winter nights.
That was a most intriguing e-mail notification to get at work today.
I checked out the Wiki info on the book - gets interesting write up.
I checked out the Wiki info on the book - gets interesting write up.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Fifty-Two
Phil responded to the knock, went to his door, and opened it.
“I saw your light on and I know you are worried. Maybe a little wine will be good?” Andi held up the bottle and glasses in offering.
Phil was in his underwear and began to get dressed. “Don't bother,” Andi said, “Just get back into bed.” Phil complied and Andi brought the two glasses he had filled to the bed. He kicked his shoes off, sat cross-legged on the feather bed, and handed Phil a glass. It was a sweet wine with a kick, not one you would want to drink much of, Phil decided after his first sip.
“You are still worried?” Andi asked.
“Yes, I don't know how much longer I can pretend that Alex went to Vienna the get some traveler's checks. He could probably get them in Salzburg.”
“He could get them in Kufstein,” Andi frowned. “You need to work on that story.”
“Ok … He had to go to Vienna to get them because he only had a letter of credit and needed to write a check. He needed to go to a branch of Deutsche Bank.”
“That's better. They don't have an office here.” Andi paused and his smile faded. “You love him. I mean, you love him a lot? The way a husband loves a wife?”
“Yes, but he wouldn't want to be called a wife. We're two men and glad of it.” Phil sipped his wine and liked it better.
“I don't know anybody like you. There are people who are 'schwul' …I mean, gay in Kufstein, but no lovers like you and Alex.”
“I think we met some. Lothar and his friend Marcus.”
“I don't think so. Marcus is married to my cousin Adelheid.”
They talked and talked, and sipped and sipped. Phil decided he was wrong about the wine. It was sweet and syrupy, but tasted pretty good. Eventually Andi lay down and fell asleep on top of the feather bed. Phil turned out the light and slept.
Phil woke in the night at the sound of a train passing and reflexively reached for Alex. Immediately he realized it was Andi, sound asleep and gently poking Phil in the thigh with his erection. Uneasy but too tired to do anything, Phil shifted his lower body away from the contact and then got out of bed. He went to the window and opened it a crack for some air. He noticed Andi's clothes, neatly folded on a chair. So he knows what he's doing, Phil concluded. He crawled back into the bed and went to sleep.
He woke again and realized Andi had his hand on him, gently holding his arm. The regular deep breathing assured Phil that Andi was still asleep. This time the contact, limited to his arm, was comforting. Phil could feel Andi's breath on his shoulder. He impulsively kissed Andi on the forehead and then turned his head away. At some level of awareness, Andi knew he had been kissed and gave Phil's arm an answering squeeze.
The third time Phil woke it was morning and Andi was gone. So were the bottle and glasses. Phil threw on a robe and went to the bathroom where he found Andi shaving after a shower. The warmth of the humid room felt good.
“Gut' Morgen, Phil,” Andi said brightly. “Sorry I fell asleep last night. That eiswein was good.”
“Ice wine will do that; so will every other kind of wine,” Phil answered with a grin as he turned on the shower.
“Andreas? Oo-oo … Andreas?” came a musical feminine voice. Andi's eyes widened. He reached for his towel and wiped the shaving cream off his face.
“OHNNN-DRAY-ASSSSS?” the voice insisted in a gravelly tone.
“Mutti ...” he muttered distractedly wrapping the towel around himself. “Cover yourself. She'll come right in,” he advised Phil. Andi quickly gathered up his shaving gear and headed for the door.
“Andreas … Liebchen,” the plummy voice played with the words. “Ich habe eine Überraschung für dich.“
Phil stepped into the hot shower. What surprise could Mommy have in store for her little sweetheart, he wondered.
Alfred wanted the train ride to be over. He wanted to be home. London was a little over a hundred miles from Norwich, but in Alfred's mind the distance was measured in light-years and the train was traveling at walking speed. The visit had disoriented him. Tom wanted something from him, something other than sex, something he didn't even understand. Why can't he just fuck me? He's so good at that, Alfred thought. And Daniel was outraged over nothing. His fellow workers all wanted to use him in one way or another. And his boss seemed to have told him, “You have wrecked everything but keep on doing it; it's good for business.” What a world.
The train ground to a halt in Colchester and then sat. The lights went off briefly and then came back on dimmer, too dim to read. After ten minutes the ticket inspector came through the car and announced that there would be a thirty minute delay owing to an equipment malfunction near Manningtree. Some of the passengers debarked and some sat waiting. The woman across the aisle tried knitting but gave up and closed her eyes hoping for sleep. His fellow passengers looked as anxious as Alfred felt. The woman couldn't sleep and got up to join the rest of the small crowd who were idly pacing the platform, smoking furtively, looking in the windows of a closed tea shop, rooting through their pockets for vending machine coins, or speaking quietly into their mobile phones.
“Is this seat taken?” a voice asked.
“No,” Alfred said without looking at the speaker.
“I got cold standing on the platform,” the speaker explained. “Should have worn something warmer.”
Alfred turned to see what he was wearing. The very young man was wearing a blue and white striped jersey advertising his fondness for Colchester United. “I've got a spare hoodie; you want it?”
“Thanks, yes.” The young man stood to pull it over his head. As he contorted himself into the hoodie, the thinness of his Colchester jersey displayed the points of his nipples against the semi-transparent white stripes. Alfred reflexively looked lower and stole a quick peek. The trouser bulge looked promising. The young man reseated himself and said, “I'm Ben Williams. No, I'm not the goalkeeper. Not even a relation.” Alfred looked mystified. “Ben Williams? You know, the goalkeeper for the United?” Ben questioned.
“Oh … right,” Alfred said. “I'm Alfred Booth, also not related to Ben Williams, either one of you, as far as I know. Going to Norwich?” Alfred quickly added, “Excuse the stupid question. Why else would you board in Colchester?”
“I'm going to school. East Anglia.”
“Really! I just left there in June. You'll enjoy it, I think. You'll have to learn to love the Canaries.”
“I already do. Premier League,” he said in an awed tone. “Not like Colchester.”
Alfred was not a rabid follower but he had learned enough team lore from Dylan and Daniel to be able to keep up with Ben. “So if Norwich can get one more good midfielder I think … What's that on the platform? Look, someone's ...”
Ben was out of his seat and off the train in an instant. Alfred followed him. Someone in a Colchester jersey had grabbed a woman's handbag and was running down the platform toward the station exit. Ben tackled him, but he got away, leaving the bag behind.
“Here you are, Miss,” Ben said as he handed her the bag. “Can't have you thinking all of us are thugs.” He pulled up the hoodie, showing her the same jersey.
After a lot of thanks from the woman and congratulations from others, Ben and Alfred reboarded the train. “I don't know why she was thanking me. You did it all,” Alfred said.
“But he saw two of us. That was what made him drop it and run,” Ben concluded.
“I never thought I was especially intimidating.”
“You're very fit and it was dark. No one could see the terror in your eyes.”
“The terror …?”
“Joke. You would have helped if you needed to.” Ben's leg rubbed against Alfred's as he gave Alfred a little punch in the arm. Here's the train crew,” Ben said pointing out the window.
“Looks like you bruised yourself,” Alfred said, touching Ben's shoulder. Ben looked and noted further damage.
“And ruined your hoodie. It's torn.”
The train soon began to move and an hour later it pulled into Norwich station, two and a half hours late. “Where are you going to stay? The University offices will be locked up by now.”
Ben looked at his watch. “I'll sit in the station. It'll be morning in a few hours.”
“Come to my house. There's room. It's just me and Mum, and she's probably away.”
An hour later Ben removed his Colchester jersey and looked at his shoulder. There was a darkening scrape and bruise, but nothing serious.
“Looks survivable,” Alfred observed. Inspecting the bruise, however, was a close encounter for Ben and Alfred. Both were intensely aware of the other's proximity and precise degree of nakedness. The sense of intimacy grew as more clothes came off.
“You take the bed. I'll nest on the floor,” Alfred said as he folded over a blanket to use as a mattress.
“Why don't you sleep in the bed with me?” Ben asked. It was not a subtle invitation. Both men knew exactly what kind of an invitation it was. Minutes later, they lay bext to each other. As Ben struggled out of his underpants, he said, “I don't know how to do this kind of sex, but I'm a fast learner. Do we kiss or do we just fuck?”
“It's free form,” Alfred said. “You do what feels good.” He slid his hand down Ben's chest and took hold of his cock. Ben matched his movements.
“First time, I came in about thirty seconds. Warn me when you get close,” Alfred advised.
“I'm close,” Ben panted and Alfred dove for his pulsing cock just in time.
After a few weeks Matt learned how to satisfy Jeff Wolf's research needs. He never tried to anticipate them, but in doing his research he looked farther into things than Jeff's initial requests required. Jeff always came up with follow-on angles that were predictable.
He doesn't just want to know the cost of costumes; he's going to want to know their durability and how closely they duplicated the garments people actually wore, Matt decided correctly. Little things like the fact that expensive Elizabethan beading could be duplicated by careful and much less expensive embroidery, which in turn also made cleaning costs lower and durability higher. The work was interesting but not compelling for someone who still longed to act.
A second feature of the job was repelling Jeff's sexual advances. It wasn't a daily wrestling match, nothing like that. It was verbal sparring; Jeff's innuendos were constant but not threatening. There was no question that Jeff had difficulty understanding Matt's fidelity to Rawson and would leap into bed at the first opportunity with anyone; but fortunately it didn't go beyond banter.
“You look anxious this morning, Matt. Wasn't Rawson fulfilling last night?” was today's morning greeting.
“I'm worried whether you are getting fulfilled, Jeff. It's bad for you spending all your nights in 'vicarious rapture'.” Matt emphasized the two words. “Who used that term and in reference to what?”
Jeff shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Pauline Kael writing about 'The Moon is Blue'; it's seminal porn and politically relevant; she's referencing the detached view of the Carter Administration as well as her own sexual frustrations. You know … all those husbands … so little sex.”
“That's bullshit,” Jeff laughed.
“Yeah? Counter it. You're the postmodernist. Every discourse is equally relevant, no?”
“No. Only my discourses are equally relevant – to each other,” Jeff smirked.
“That's like fucking yourself. What a contorted life ... I brought some Danish. You want one?”
“Blueberry?”
“Two.”
“What an assistant!” Jeff beamed at the fresh pastries Matt set out on the desk. Ed Chesnel came out of the bedroom pulling on a sweat shirt.
“In fact he wasn't fucking himself last night. Close to it; but, technically, no.” Ed reached for the other Danish and poured himself a coffee. “You two could do improv. You're at least as entertaining as 'The Vagina Monologues.' ”
“Ok,” Matt began seriously. “You wanted the financial aspects of minimalist staging?” Here … it probably allowed half the dramas of the 1930's to get produced.” Matt lay a stack of papers on the desk. “Call it social realism or cheap productions; it got lots produced. The savings weren't just on the physical properties, but stage hands, prop masters, wardrobe - everything was minimized. Gravitas on a shoestring, although the producer and the author generally carved out a larger share. I'm going to the L.C.”
“Poor fellow. The Library of Congress is so unproductive a day,” Ed sympathized as he watched Matt leave.
“He makes that library sing; he can find anything there. I figure he's blowing somebody in the stacks.”
“Hah … you know he could get me to do anything with a smile.”
“So could I, in fact …” Jeff speculated, “I believe I have – more than once.”
“Um, but we were younger then. Now it takes more than a smile; it takes dinner at least.”
“So … what are you going to do for our friend Matt?” Jeff's question was serious.
“Are you sure you want to give him up? He's the best assistant you've ever had.”
“He's too good for me. I won't be able to keep him for long, anyway.”
“You like him. Jeffrey Wolf. You like him.” Ed stared in wonder at his old friend.
“I like you, too. What has that ever gotten me?”
“Casual sex. Cash loans. Crash pads. Food. A shoulder to cry on. Should I go on?”
“We just never got together … never loved each other at the same time, huh, Eddie?”
“Not true. We love each other now.”
“But not … you know … 'that' way.”
“When you're our age and every today is better than every tomorrow is going to be, 'this' way is plenty good enough.”
Jeff hugged his friend from behind, bent down and kissed Ed's balding head. “So what are you going to do for him?”
A young guy in a Subaru waved at me. Does that mean he's ...”
“Not in this country. More likely it means you were crossing the street illegally. The driving-on-the-left thing takes some getting used to,” Tom told Heiko.
“You sure? He seemed pretty interested.”
“You almost a married man, Heiko. You need to adjust your thinking.”
“We're not even engaged. There are no formal arrangements. You still have a chance.” Heiko looked at Tom appraisingly.
Tom was never sure how to take Heiko's semi-propositions. Whether he was joking or whether he was serious was impossible to tell and Tom didn't want to risk embarrassment by asking direct questions. He was afraid of both answers. So Tom made no comment on his chances.
“Thanks for coming to the party. Alfred was hot looking,” Heiko continued. “You have a good weekend?”
“Pretty good. Alfred loves the one he's with.” Tom's expression told Heiko he didn't want to talk about that. “Are you ready to try loading test data?”
“It should run. Cyril sent the hardware patch for that old Burroughs iron. You know, I don't get this place. Burroughs? A whole new system would cost less that the annual maintenance on that old stuff.”
“They have money for a maintenance staff. They don't have money for hardware. It makes sense if you use government logic. And it works.”
“Of course it works. So do crossbows!” Alistair called out as he entered the room. “Can you do a live demo by Wednesday? I've got magnates ministerial coming. Here's a list.” Alistir gave a folio to Tom. “And for you, dear boy, a souvenir.” He handed Heiko a sealed envelope. “Don't open it now. You and your friend Zenzi were a great success at my little party. Everyone was buzzing: a princess, she's a princess. She certainly looked the part. She's beautiful … in a way that calls for a lot of jewels.”
“Yes, and my schatzkammer is empty.” Heiko seemed honestly regretful that he lacked trunks of jewelry.
“Well the latest scandal is that the V and A discovered their treasure room is, too – not empty, but less full than they thought. Some duke left them a bunch of cut glass instead of diamonds. Turned out the old boy had been selling off the real stuff for decades.”
Yes, I think we can do it,” Tom said, looking up from Alistair's meeting agenda. “You want us at both sessions? Or just one.”
“The afternoon one, I think. Better people will be there, people from the continent. Alright? Good.” Alistair left as quickly as he had entered.
Heiko opened the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper. It was a pencil sketch of himself in the upper left quadrant of the page. Across the bottom the label read Hendrik Wittelsbach, London, 2010.
“It's good, but … why is the drawing crammed into the corner?” Heiko was mystified.
“Wait. Come with me,” Tom answered, grinning. They walked down the corridor to a room marked Radiography.
“Can we put this on your light box?” Tom asked a conservator. “You ready?” he asked Heiko.
Click. The fluorescent glow came on.
“Jesus Christ!” Heiko gasped.
“Looks like Michelangelo's Dying Slave has an erection,” the conservator commented on the reclining nude drawing.
“It's me!” Heiko gasped again.
“Lucky man,” the conservator commented, enjoying the view, “I've only heard about these Dragon drawings. Never actually seen one before. Is it accurate?”
Tom had never seen Heiko at a loss for what to say before. Heiko quickly took down the drawing and slid it back into the envelope. “Er, what do you mean is it accurate? I have all the usual parts of a man.”
“I mean, are you really that …” the conservator searched for a word. 'Big' wasn't the right one. He settled for 'perfect'.
Heiko left without answering. Tom gave the conservator a wink and followed Heiko. “He did one of me, too. Several, in fact. It's a shock seeing one the first time. A guy at the Smithsonian predicted they will be valuable some day.”
“Is it accurate?” Heiko mimicked. “How would I know?” He was still shocked at seeing himself in such lurid detail but he couldn't keep the beginnings of a smile off his face. “Tom, what kind of light do I need to see the drawing?”
“No jacking off to yourself, Heiko.”
“Just curious ...” Heiko's walk slowed and became more loose-jointed. “I could do porn, you think?”
“No question. But Seth ... Remember Seth in Alameda? Seth says, based on experience, you wouldn't want to.”
“I did that one modeling thing with Darren ...”
“Heiko, you're not serious.” Tom let a little alarm come through in his voice.
“Kind of hot thinking I turn people on … visually.”
“Peptides. Are the new ones invented or discovered? Do the unknown ones exist in theory or in fact?”
Lucky looked up as Mike came into the apartment. His face was wet and his eyes red. “I love you.”
“Well, that doesn't answer either question, but it's good to hear.” Mike put a bag of groceries down and noticed Lucky's appearance. “Lucky … what's wrong?”
“The baby isn't doing so well … Her lungs and her kidneys aren't sufficiently developed, they say.”
Mike sat next to Lucky and held him, occasionally kissing his forehead. “Where's Al?”
“At the hospital.”
“Georgetown Hospital? Do you want to go? I'll drive. Be glad to.”
“I was there earlier. Al told me to go. There's nothing to do. Nothing that I can do. Just wait. See what happens. They're worried about an infection.”
Mike punched some buttons on his phone and waited. “Al? It's Mike. I'm going to make dinner for Debbie, Lucky, and myself. Can you come around six-thirty? Uh-huh. Would you like me to take something to the hospital for you? No? Do you want some company at the hospital? Are you sure? Are you really, really sure? Ok. Is there any news? Ok. That's good, I guess. Call if you need any thing. Any day, any time.” Mike closed his phone and sat back down with Lucky.
“How did she sound?”
“Not good at all. Maybe we should go to the hospital anyway, Lucky. I'm going to ask Debbie what she thinks. Maybe she has talked to Al.”
“My simple fuck 'em and forget 'em life has turned into a bad sop opera. I'd laugh except it hurts too much.” Lucky pulled Mike against him and held on hoping the world would slow down a little.
Phil responded to the knock, went to his door, and opened it.
“I saw your light on and I know you are worried. Maybe a little wine will be good?” Andi held up the bottle and glasses in offering.
Phil was in his underwear and began to get dressed. “Don't bother,” Andi said, “Just get back into bed.” Phil complied and Andi brought the two glasses he had filled to the bed. He kicked his shoes off, sat cross-legged on the feather bed, and handed Phil a glass. It was a sweet wine with a kick, not one you would want to drink much of, Phil decided after his first sip.
“You are still worried?” Andi asked.
“Yes, I don't know how much longer I can pretend that Alex went to Vienna the get some traveler's checks. He could probably get them in Salzburg.”
“He could get them in Kufstein,” Andi frowned. “You need to work on that story.”
“Ok … He had to go to Vienna to get them because he only had a letter of credit and needed to write a check. He needed to go to a branch of Deutsche Bank.”
“That's better. They don't have an office here.” Andi paused and his smile faded. “You love him. I mean, you love him a lot? The way a husband loves a wife?”
“Yes, but he wouldn't want to be called a wife. We're two men and glad of it.” Phil sipped his wine and liked it better.
“I don't know anybody like you. There are people who are 'schwul' …I mean, gay in Kufstein, but no lovers like you and Alex.”
“I think we met some. Lothar and his friend Marcus.”
“I don't think so. Marcus is married to my cousin Adelheid.”
They talked and talked, and sipped and sipped. Phil decided he was wrong about the wine. It was sweet and syrupy, but tasted pretty good. Eventually Andi lay down and fell asleep on top of the feather bed. Phil turned out the light and slept.
Phil woke in the night at the sound of a train passing and reflexively reached for Alex. Immediately he realized it was Andi, sound asleep and gently poking Phil in the thigh with his erection. Uneasy but too tired to do anything, Phil shifted his lower body away from the contact and then got out of bed. He went to the window and opened it a crack for some air. He noticed Andi's clothes, neatly folded on a chair. So he knows what he's doing, Phil concluded. He crawled back into the bed and went to sleep.
He woke again and realized Andi had his hand on him, gently holding his arm. The regular deep breathing assured Phil that Andi was still asleep. This time the contact, limited to his arm, was comforting. Phil could feel Andi's breath on his shoulder. He impulsively kissed Andi on the forehead and then turned his head away. At some level of awareness, Andi knew he had been kissed and gave Phil's arm an answering squeeze.
The third time Phil woke it was morning and Andi was gone. So were the bottle and glasses. Phil threw on a robe and went to the bathroom where he found Andi shaving after a shower. The warmth of the humid room felt good.
“Gut' Morgen, Phil,” Andi said brightly. “Sorry I fell asleep last night. That eiswein was good.”
“Ice wine will do that; so will every other kind of wine,” Phil answered with a grin as he turned on the shower.
“Andreas? Oo-oo … Andreas?” came a musical feminine voice. Andi's eyes widened. He reached for his towel and wiped the shaving cream off his face.
“OHNNN-DRAY-ASSSSS?” the voice insisted in a gravelly tone.
“Mutti ...” he muttered distractedly wrapping the towel around himself. “Cover yourself. She'll come right in,” he advised Phil. Andi quickly gathered up his shaving gear and headed for the door.
“Andreas … Liebchen,” the plummy voice played with the words. “Ich habe eine Überraschung für dich.“
Phil stepped into the hot shower. What surprise could Mommy have in store for her little sweetheart, he wondered.
Alfred wanted the train ride to be over. He wanted to be home. London was a little over a hundred miles from Norwich, but in Alfred's mind the distance was measured in light-years and the train was traveling at walking speed. The visit had disoriented him. Tom wanted something from him, something other than sex, something he didn't even understand. Why can't he just fuck me? He's so good at that, Alfred thought. And Daniel was outraged over nothing. His fellow workers all wanted to use him in one way or another. And his boss seemed to have told him, “You have wrecked everything but keep on doing it; it's good for business.” What a world.
The train ground to a halt in Colchester and then sat. The lights went off briefly and then came back on dimmer, too dim to read. After ten minutes the ticket inspector came through the car and announced that there would be a thirty minute delay owing to an equipment malfunction near Manningtree. Some of the passengers debarked and some sat waiting. The woman across the aisle tried knitting but gave up and closed her eyes hoping for sleep. His fellow passengers looked as anxious as Alfred felt. The woman couldn't sleep and got up to join the rest of the small crowd who were idly pacing the platform, smoking furtively, looking in the windows of a closed tea shop, rooting through their pockets for vending machine coins, or speaking quietly into their mobile phones.
“Is this seat taken?” a voice asked.
“No,” Alfred said without looking at the speaker.
“I got cold standing on the platform,” the speaker explained. “Should have worn something warmer.”
Alfred turned to see what he was wearing. The very young man was wearing a blue and white striped jersey advertising his fondness for Colchester United. “I've got a spare hoodie; you want it?”
“Thanks, yes.” The young man stood to pull it over his head. As he contorted himself into the hoodie, the thinness of his Colchester jersey displayed the points of his nipples against the semi-transparent white stripes. Alfred reflexively looked lower and stole a quick peek. The trouser bulge looked promising. The young man reseated himself and said, “I'm Ben Williams. No, I'm not the goalkeeper. Not even a relation.” Alfred looked mystified. “Ben Williams? You know, the goalkeeper for the United?” Ben questioned.
“Oh … right,” Alfred said. “I'm Alfred Booth, also not related to Ben Williams, either one of you, as far as I know. Going to Norwich?” Alfred quickly added, “Excuse the stupid question. Why else would you board in Colchester?”
“I'm going to school. East Anglia.”
“Really! I just left there in June. You'll enjoy it, I think. You'll have to learn to love the Canaries.”
“I already do. Premier League,” he said in an awed tone. “Not like Colchester.”
Alfred was not a rabid follower but he had learned enough team lore from Dylan and Daniel to be able to keep up with Ben. “So if Norwich can get one more good midfielder I think … What's that on the platform? Look, someone's ...”
Ben was out of his seat and off the train in an instant. Alfred followed him. Someone in a Colchester jersey had grabbed a woman's handbag and was running down the platform toward the station exit. Ben tackled him, but he got away, leaving the bag behind.
“Here you are, Miss,” Ben said as he handed her the bag. “Can't have you thinking all of us are thugs.” He pulled up the hoodie, showing her the same jersey.
After a lot of thanks from the woman and congratulations from others, Ben and Alfred reboarded the train. “I don't know why she was thanking me. You did it all,” Alfred said.
“But he saw two of us. That was what made him drop it and run,” Ben concluded.
“I never thought I was especially intimidating.”
“You're very fit and it was dark. No one could see the terror in your eyes.”
“The terror …?”
“Joke. You would have helped if you needed to.” Ben's leg rubbed against Alfred's as he gave Alfred a little punch in the arm. Here's the train crew,” Ben said pointing out the window.
“Looks like you bruised yourself,” Alfred said, touching Ben's shoulder. Ben looked and noted further damage.
“And ruined your hoodie. It's torn.”
The train soon began to move and an hour later it pulled into Norwich station, two and a half hours late. “Where are you going to stay? The University offices will be locked up by now.”
Ben looked at his watch. “I'll sit in the station. It'll be morning in a few hours.”
“Come to my house. There's room. It's just me and Mum, and she's probably away.”
An hour later Ben removed his Colchester jersey and looked at his shoulder. There was a darkening scrape and bruise, but nothing serious.
“Looks survivable,” Alfred observed. Inspecting the bruise, however, was a close encounter for Ben and Alfred. Both were intensely aware of the other's proximity and precise degree of nakedness. The sense of intimacy grew as more clothes came off.
“You take the bed. I'll nest on the floor,” Alfred said as he folded over a blanket to use as a mattress.
“Why don't you sleep in the bed with me?” Ben asked. It was not a subtle invitation. Both men knew exactly what kind of an invitation it was. Minutes later, they lay bext to each other. As Ben struggled out of his underpants, he said, “I don't know how to do this kind of sex, but I'm a fast learner. Do we kiss or do we just fuck?”
“It's free form,” Alfred said. “You do what feels good.” He slid his hand down Ben's chest and took hold of his cock. Ben matched his movements.
“First time, I came in about thirty seconds. Warn me when you get close,” Alfred advised.
“I'm close,” Ben panted and Alfred dove for his pulsing cock just in time.
After a few weeks Matt learned how to satisfy Jeff Wolf's research needs. He never tried to anticipate them, but in doing his research he looked farther into things than Jeff's initial requests required. Jeff always came up with follow-on angles that were predictable.
He doesn't just want to know the cost of costumes; he's going to want to know their durability and how closely they duplicated the garments people actually wore, Matt decided correctly. Little things like the fact that expensive Elizabethan beading could be duplicated by careful and much less expensive embroidery, which in turn also made cleaning costs lower and durability higher. The work was interesting but not compelling for someone who still longed to act.
A second feature of the job was repelling Jeff's sexual advances. It wasn't a daily wrestling match, nothing like that. It was verbal sparring; Jeff's innuendos were constant but not threatening. There was no question that Jeff had difficulty understanding Matt's fidelity to Rawson and would leap into bed at the first opportunity with anyone; but fortunately it didn't go beyond banter.
“You look anxious this morning, Matt. Wasn't Rawson fulfilling last night?” was today's morning greeting.
“I'm worried whether you are getting fulfilled, Jeff. It's bad for you spending all your nights in 'vicarious rapture'.” Matt emphasized the two words. “Who used that term and in reference to what?”
Jeff shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Pauline Kael writing about 'The Moon is Blue'; it's seminal porn and politically relevant; she's referencing the detached view of the Carter Administration as well as her own sexual frustrations. You know … all those husbands … so little sex.”
“That's bullshit,” Jeff laughed.
“Yeah? Counter it. You're the postmodernist. Every discourse is equally relevant, no?”
“No. Only my discourses are equally relevant – to each other,” Jeff smirked.
“That's like fucking yourself. What a contorted life ... I brought some Danish. You want one?”
“Blueberry?”
“Two.”
“What an assistant!” Jeff beamed at the fresh pastries Matt set out on the desk. Ed Chesnel came out of the bedroom pulling on a sweat shirt.
“In fact he wasn't fucking himself last night. Close to it; but, technically, no.” Ed reached for the other Danish and poured himself a coffee. “You two could do improv. You're at least as entertaining as 'The Vagina Monologues.' ”
“Ok,” Matt began seriously. “You wanted the financial aspects of minimalist staging?” Here … it probably allowed half the dramas of the 1930's to get produced.” Matt lay a stack of papers on the desk. “Call it social realism or cheap productions; it got lots produced. The savings weren't just on the physical properties, but stage hands, prop masters, wardrobe - everything was minimized. Gravitas on a shoestring, although the producer and the author generally carved out a larger share. I'm going to the L.C.”
“Poor fellow. The Library of Congress is so unproductive a day,” Ed sympathized as he watched Matt leave.
“He makes that library sing; he can find anything there. I figure he's blowing somebody in the stacks.”
“Hah … you know he could get me to do anything with a smile.”
“So could I, in fact …” Jeff speculated, “I believe I have – more than once.”
“Um, but we were younger then. Now it takes more than a smile; it takes dinner at least.”
“So … what are you going to do for our friend Matt?” Jeff's question was serious.
“Are you sure you want to give him up? He's the best assistant you've ever had.”
“He's too good for me. I won't be able to keep him for long, anyway.”
“You like him. Jeffrey Wolf. You like him.” Ed stared in wonder at his old friend.
“I like you, too. What has that ever gotten me?”
“Casual sex. Cash loans. Crash pads. Food. A shoulder to cry on. Should I go on?”
“We just never got together … never loved each other at the same time, huh, Eddie?”
“Not true. We love each other now.”
“But not … you know … 'that' way.”
“When you're our age and every today is better than every tomorrow is going to be, 'this' way is plenty good enough.”
Jeff hugged his friend from behind, bent down and kissed Ed's balding head. “So what are you going to do for him?”
A young guy in a Subaru waved at me. Does that mean he's ...”
“Not in this country. More likely it means you were crossing the street illegally. The driving-on-the-left thing takes some getting used to,” Tom told Heiko.
“You sure? He seemed pretty interested.”
“You almost a married man, Heiko. You need to adjust your thinking.”
“We're not even engaged. There are no formal arrangements. You still have a chance.” Heiko looked at Tom appraisingly.
Tom was never sure how to take Heiko's semi-propositions. Whether he was joking or whether he was serious was impossible to tell and Tom didn't want to risk embarrassment by asking direct questions. He was afraid of both answers. So Tom made no comment on his chances.
“Thanks for coming to the party. Alfred was hot looking,” Heiko continued. “You have a good weekend?”
“Pretty good. Alfred loves the one he's with.” Tom's expression told Heiko he didn't want to talk about that. “Are you ready to try loading test data?”
“It should run. Cyril sent the hardware patch for that old Burroughs iron. You know, I don't get this place. Burroughs? A whole new system would cost less that the annual maintenance on that old stuff.”
“They have money for a maintenance staff. They don't have money for hardware. It makes sense if you use government logic. And it works.”
“Of course it works. So do crossbows!” Alistair called out as he entered the room. “Can you do a live demo by Wednesday? I've got magnates ministerial coming. Here's a list.” Alistir gave a folio to Tom. “And for you, dear boy, a souvenir.” He handed Heiko a sealed envelope. “Don't open it now. You and your friend Zenzi were a great success at my little party. Everyone was buzzing: a princess, she's a princess. She certainly looked the part. She's beautiful … in a way that calls for a lot of jewels.”
“Yes, and my schatzkammer is empty.” Heiko seemed honestly regretful that he lacked trunks of jewelry.
“Well the latest scandal is that the V and A discovered their treasure room is, too – not empty, but less full than they thought. Some duke left them a bunch of cut glass instead of diamonds. Turned out the old boy had been selling off the real stuff for decades.”
Yes, I think we can do it,” Tom said, looking up from Alistair's meeting agenda. “You want us at both sessions? Or just one.”
“The afternoon one, I think. Better people will be there, people from the continent. Alright? Good.” Alistair left as quickly as he had entered.
Heiko opened the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper. It was a pencil sketch of himself in the upper left quadrant of the page. Across the bottom the label read Hendrik Wittelsbach, London, 2010.
“It's good, but … why is the drawing crammed into the corner?” Heiko was mystified.
“Wait. Come with me,” Tom answered, grinning. They walked down the corridor to a room marked Radiography.
“Can we put this on your light box?” Tom asked a conservator. “You ready?” he asked Heiko.
Click. The fluorescent glow came on.
“Jesus Christ!” Heiko gasped.
“Looks like Michelangelo's Dying Slave has an erection,” the conservator commented on the reclining nude drawing.
“It's me!” Heiko gasped again.
“Lucky man,” the conservator commented, enjoying the view, “I've only heard about these Dragon drawings. Never actually seen one before. Is it accurate?”
Tom had never seen Heiko at a loss for what to say before. Heiko quickly took down the drawing and slid it back into the envelope. “Er, what do you mean is it accurate? I have all the usual parts of a man.”
“I mean, are you really that …” the conservator searched for a word. 'Big' wasn't the right one. He settled for 'perfect'.
Heiko left without answering. Tom gave the conservator a wink and followed Heiko. “He did one of me, too. Several, in fact. It's a shock seeing one the first time. A guy at the Smithsonian predicted they will be valuable some day.”
“Is it accurate?” Heiko mimicked. “How would I know?” He was still shocked at seeing himself in such lurid detail but he couldn't keep the beginnings of a smile off his face. “Tom, what kind of light do I need to see the drawing?”
“No jacking off to yourself, Heiko.”
“Just curious ...” Heiko's walk slowed and became more loose-jointed. “I could do porn, you think?”
“No question. But Seth ... Remember Seth in Alameda? Seth says, based on experience, you wouldn't want to.”
“I did that one modeling thing with Darren ...”
“Heiko, you're not serious.” Tom let a little alarm come through in his voice.
“Kind of hot thinking I turn people on … visually.”
“Peptides. Are the new ones invented or discovered? Do the unknown ones exist in theory or in fact?”
Lucky looked up as Mike came into the apartment. His face was wet and his eyes red. “I love you.”
“Well, that doesn't answer either question, but it's good to hear.” Mike put a bag of groceries down and noticed Lucky's appearance. “Lucky … what's wrong?”
“The baby isn't doing so well … Her lungs and her kidneys aren't sufficiently developed, they say.”
Mike sat next to Lucky and held him, occasionally kissing his forehead. “Where's Al?”
“At the hospital.”
“Georgetown Hospital? Do you want to go? I'll drive. Be glad to.”
“I was there earlier. Al told me to go. There's nothing to do. Nothing that I can do. Just wait. See what happens. They're worried about an infection.”
Mike punched some buttons on his phone and waited. “Al? It's Mike. I'm going to make dinner for Debbie, Lucky, and myself. Can you come around six-thirty? Uh-huh. Would you like me to take something to the hospital for you? No? Do you want some company at the hospital? Are you sure? Are you really, really sure? Ok. Is there any news? Ok. That's good, I guess. Call if you need any thing. Any day, any time.” Mike closed his phone and sat back down with Lucky.
“How did she sound?”
“Not good at all. Maybe we should go to the hospital anyway, Lucky. I'm going to ask Debbie what she thinks. Maybe she has talked to Al.”
“My simple fuck 'em and forget 'em life has turned into a bad sop opera. I'd laugh except it hurts too much.” Lucky pulled Mike against him and held on hoping the world would slow down a little.
Rory,
Your usual excellence shines through.
Sincere Concern in the Alps,
Puzzlement and Promise in one section of the UK,
even MORE puzzlement in London,
Good promises behind the scenes in one part of DC,
while medical issues cut to the heart over little ones.
You always keep us wondering and wanting.
Your usual excellence shines through.
Sincere Concern in the Alps,
Puzzlement and Promise in one section of the UK,
even MORE puzzlement in London,
Good promises behind the scenes in one part of DC,
while medical issues cut to the heart over little ones.
You always keep us wondering and wanting.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Fifty-Three
“We're going to a small country house in Brittany for a long weekend, if that's ok,” Heiko told Tom. “I'll be back on Tuesday. This is my sexual compatibility test, I think.”
“Do you want to leave today? After your killer presentation yesterday, I probably need to hide you or somebody will make you a better offer than we can.”
“Could I? At the end of the day, of course. We could get an early start tomorrow morning then and be there by noon.” Heiko seemed optimistic about spending a long weekend with Zenzi on a quiet French beach.
“Go now, if you want. There's nothing that can't wait until Tuesday.”
“Actually there is. I need to test some comm links with Alameda. To make sure our BFL partners can't screw us.”
“You think they would? We've kind of got John Sherman embedded there. He'll give us a heads-up.”
“Will he? Probably. But it doesn't hurt to be sure. Trust but verify …”
“What are you doing?”
“Cyril can slick the system from Alameda without detection, he thinks, using a European mirror site. We want to test it.”
“I guess that's better for a Thursday than invading Denmark.” Tom smiled to himself and went to a meeting with Andrew Barwick, a catalog manager for the museum.
“Hello, Mr. Barwick,” he said and introduced himself.
“We met at Alistair's last Sunday. Just briefly,” Barwick answered.
“Yes, you were with a very attractive redhead. I remember.”
“She dumped me for a more attractive opportunity named Dabney.”
“Is that a male or female name. I can't tell.”
“I couldn't, either, based on looks; but if I had to guess, I'd say female.”
“I'm sorry.” Tom wondered where this talk was going; data entry seemed the farthest thing from Barwick's mind.
“Don't be. If it hadn't been Dabney, she wanted to molest that young American with you. Hendrick? Was that his name?”
Ah-ha, Tom though. Heiko has conquered another one. “He's actually German, but he's studying at Stanford University in California,” Tom explained.
“Really? Maybe we should have let them win …” Barwick waited for Tom's laugh, which never came. “Er, yes … well, we were hoping to work out a training programme with him.”
“Heiko's committed to something else until Tuesday. Maybe I could help in the meantime.” Tom sat and spread his legs a bit. Barwick's wandering eyes checked him out.
“Let's talk over a tea break.” Barwick led the way to a door marked Tea Room. They entered and looked at what was left of a long defunct buffet room. Barwick just smiled and cupped Tom's package.
“Tea?” Tom queried.
“Tea later,” Barwick said. He unzipped Tom and extracted his cock. “Would the German boy have gone for this?”
“Probably not,” Tom answered as he undid Barwick's trousers.
“Are you going to suck me?”
“No,” Tom answered. “Turn around and bend over.”
“Yes!” Barwick acknowledged. “You have a condom?” he asked, indifferent to whether they proceeded or not.
“Yes, it's prelubed.”
It seemed like sex that neither one of them particularly wanted, but their cocks were hard and the players were willing if not eager. At the climax, of course, their involvement increased. Guys are always into it at the end, no matter the circumstances. Tom pumped and came and gave Barwick a courtesy reach-around, jacking him off before withdrawing his cock.
“You're still hard,” Barwick noticed.
“Yeah, you want to go again?” Tom paused, waiting to fasten his pants.
“No, but I'll remember for the next time. You're big, too,” Barwick noted.
Tom was tempted to say “So's your ass”; but he decided that wouldn't help anything.
Lucky was cheered by the arrival of the mail. He sat in their living area and opened the envelopes. There were more donations. Three of the checks were for a thousand each and the donors reported that they were responding to the recommendation of Kaden Ali Khan. Lucky knew every donation would make the Merridell interests more comfortable with their decisions to endow the museum and to make Lucky its head.
The baby's progress was slow, but the doctor had warned that it would be a long process. Lucky accepted the doctor's words, but Al didn't. There was nothing she could do about it, but it was not in her nature to remain passive and let nature work its magic. 'Tincture of time' was the worst medicine Al had ever heard of. If there were a mechanical way to operate the baby's kidneys, Al would be running the pump. She fretted over everything, worried endlessly, and exhausted herself trying to work, advise the doctor, and run the baby's treatment as well.
“The case isn't that remarkable. A hundred years ago this little girl's survival would have been a miracle; but today it's routine. We pay close attention, of course, but the outcome, namely a healthy young girl, is all but assured,” the doctor told her more than once. Despite the words, Al worried, paced, stayed up nights, and did a half-assed job of all of it. That's what mother's do, some more successfully than others.
Lucky put down the mail and prepared a deposit slip for the newly arrived checks. He should have hired an assistant, but the operation was still small enough that he could handle the administration himself. The construction plans he left up to Mike, sitting ten feet away and looking very cute with a frown on his face.
“Lucky, maybe we could restore the art to the garage. It really most impressive in its original setting. And it would be tons … like millions … cheaper. The main house could be the expansion area. Leave the school there for now – it more than pays its own way – and take it over as your needs grow. It's impressive, though. Maybe we could set you up a suite of offices there.”
“Would there be a bed in any of those offices?”
Mike looked perplexed. “You can furnish them any way you want, I guess. A day bed, maybe leather, could work.”
“Would it have you on it?”
Mike smiled, catching on; he wasn't used to joking about work. He could joke at work, but never about work; it just wasn't in him to do that. Sex, on the other hand, was becoming much more an integral part of his life.
“Top or bottom?” Mike grinned.
“Sometimes a little of this; some times a little of that,” Lucky answered watching Mike walk over to him.
Mike lifted Lucky out of his chair and embraced him. “Little isn't a good description of either one of us.” Mike thrust his growing erection against Lucky. He was already fussing with buttons on Lucky's clothes.
“Wait! You can't fuck me on top of the bank deposit.”
“Do banks count protein deposits?” Mike had Lucky's pants down around his ankles and was raising his legs. “I don't think so. Banks wouldn't care if the protein was still liquid, I bet.” Lucky's pants were immobiling; Mike hooked both the pants and Lucky's entrapped ankles behind his head and dropped his own pants. He didn't mess around and put his cock right into Lucky, using a little precum as the only lube.
“Uhhhh!” Lucky gasped.
“Did I hurt you?” Mike asked.
“A little … that's ok … I like it when you hurt me a little,” Lucky gasped.
“I'm sorry, baby. I get so desperate for you.”
“Fuck me, Mikey.” Lucky pulled Mike into a kiss. “A little harder, babe. Oh … yes … Your cock curves just the right way … Mmmm.” Mike managed a contortion that let him suck Lucky's cock while still pumping his ass. “Fuck!” Lucky cried out. “Yes! Yes!” Lucky flooded Mike's mouth with semen almost as fast as Mike swallowed.
“But you didn't come,” Lucky complained as they dressed.
“That's ok. I didn't need it the same way you did. I can wait for tonight,” Mike explained. “And then I'll get even. Yes, I'll get even,” Mike growled. He chuckled when Lucky looked up, surprised and more than a little pleased by his determination.
Phil wandered aimlessly ending up at the Heldenorgen in time for a noontimePalestrina recital. Church music was definitely not his favorite, but it was free and the day was bright. He sat and ordered hot chocolate and waited for the concert to begin.
“Philip, may I join you?”
Of course. I need to thank you again for the rifle practice, Lothar.”
Lothar placed his coffee on Phil's table and sat. “Marcus is playing today and I want to hear. He is not the best organist in town, but he gets better every time he plays.”
“I wish I had fans as dedicated as you,” Phil answered.
“Oh, I have to listen,” Lothar laughed. “He is my best friend and his wife never comes.” Phil speculated that Lothar did not appreciate the sexual implication of his comment. “She has her hands full with four children,” he continued.
“Yes, I could tell you are very good friends.”
“His brother jokes that we should be lovers, we are so close. Are you and Alex …?”
“Lovers? Yes, we are.”
“No! I didn't intent to ask that … I was going to ask if you plan to play anywhere else in Austria.” Lothar blushed in confusion.
“We will play wherever we can get hired. We played on a ship and will probably do that again. Don't be embarrassed about us being lovers. I'm not.”
Marcus came down from the castle where the organ's pipes were housed and approached the glass enclosure that contained the keyboard console. He burst into a smile when he saw Lothar and waved. Phil watched Lothar smile in return as Marcus sat at the bench in front of the huge console.
Marcus played a motet, a lamentation, and a magnificat. His playing was competent but not nuanced, rather like the music itself, measured, ordered, and predictable. He bowed in response to polite applause from the small crowd in the square and then joined Lothar and Phil.
“Your playing really pointed out to me the discipline in Palestrina's musical forms,” Phil told Marcus, who was looking more for Lothar's approval. “I could never play with that precision and balance.”
“And I could never get people to pound the table and ask for more the way you do,” Marcus answered politely.
“Der schönster orgelspieler,” Lothar almost whispered. His eyes never left Marcus's face.
Phil wondered whether Lothar meant schönster to describe the playing or the player. In German, as in English, 'the most beautiful organist' could mean either one.. If this were Washington, he would have told the two of them to get a room; but it was Kufstein where the comment would hurt. Almost immeditely Marcus was called from the table by other friends.
“He liked what you said, I could tell,” Lothar said.
“You two are exceptional friends. You're lucky.”
“We are lovers who don't have sex, you mean? My brother has told me that, too.” They sipped their cups. “I don't think the possibility of sex has never occurred to Marcus. Please don't bring it up.”
“No. Never,” Phil quickly promised.
“Some pleasures he gets from his wife and some he gets from me. Different things,” Lothar tried to explain. “I like what we have; and I don't look for any more.”
“What you have is beautiful,” Phil agreed.
“Thank you. I will hear you play tonight?”
Will you come with Marcus?”
“I'm not sure. Maybe with Michael, another friend. Please don't even hint to Marcus anything ...”
“I promise I won't,” Phil replied.
“So … It's not a big part, but it's for the reopening of the theater. There will probably be New York critics there. You'll get noticed … What do you say?”
“I don't have to fuck anybody? Or get naked?” Matt asked.
“I don't know about the costumes, but no sex with anybody. I swear to you the director is straight … or as straight as anybody in the theater ever gets.” Ed Chesnel crossed his finger over his heart.
“Paris doesn't have much to say … but I'm not complaining,” Matt said. “He gets to kiss Juliet once.”
“He also gets to look good in every scene he's in. The concept is to show Paris off as a catch, a plausible rival to Romeo – make it look like Juliet has a very good alternative.”
Matt hugged Ed. “Thank you, thank you. I'll do my best.”
Ed pushed Matt away. “I only got you an audition. You have to get the part all by yourself.” He watched Matt leave the office. “An audition. OK? It was the best I could do. Satisfied, Wolfie?” he asked his author friend.
The building housing the Arena Stage was still covered in scaffolding inside and out. The remodeling looked to be months from completion. The rehearsal hall was dusty and badly lighted and the sounds of construction penetrated the walls like randomly timed cannon shots.
“I'm here to read for the part of Paris,” Matt told the girl at the desk. He handed her his resume and some photos of himself. He sat down to wait … and wait … and wait.
“Matt Mitchell?” the older man asked.
“Rodney! Good to see you. Are you here to read?” Matt recognized Rodney Young, a fellow survivor of the disastrous Othello production.
“I'm reading for the Prince. You?”
“Your Prince's cousin Paris.”
“What have you been up to since … ?” Rodney rolled his eyes at the memory.
“Nothing on stage. I'm a research assistant for a writer.”
“That beautiful body wasted in a library all the time? As I recall your dick was just about the best thing in ...” Rodney was interrupted by the director's assistant.
“Matt Mitchell? Matt Mitchell? … Hi. I'm Amy. Peter's ready for you now.”
“… the whole play,” Rodney sighed, talking to Matt's back.
Peter Parker was sitting with two aides at a table. “No jokes about the name,” helpful Amy advised.
“Hello, I'm Peter Parker, thanks for coming. You're here to read Paris?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ok, let's do it. We'll do the scene with Friar Lawrence in Act Four. Miss Abrams will play the Friar.” He indicated the woman on his left would read.
Miss Abrams whispered something into the director's ear. Parker explained, “Miss Abrams knows about your Othello. She wants to find a reason to get your clothes off.”
“Just ask ...” Matt shrugged and, trying to hide his annoyance, he started unbuttoning his shirt.
“No, stop!” Parker laughed. “She meant in the play. Just read,” he said still chuckling.
Matt read a page of dialog with Miss Abrams and then waited. “Alright. Walk back and forth as if you're Paris. A little more athletic, can you? Can you dance?”
“Yes,” Matt answered, not knowing if he was being completely truthful.
“Alright, thank you, Mr. … uh, Mitchell. Wait outside please. This won't take long.”
“How'd it go?” Rodney asked.
“I have no idea,” Matt answered. “I didn't do anything horrible, but … who knows?”
Matt sat and fidgeted while Rodney read. In short order, Rodney was out again, smiling. “Escalus the Prince and understudy for Capulet,” he beamed. “Good luck, Matt.”
Matt was called back. “We have two very appealing choices for Paris and can't really decide,” Peter Parker explained. “If you don't get the Paris, would you accept the Peter?” Matt's face showed his confusion. “The nurse's assistant role - that Peter.”
Matt didn't remember exactly how he got back to the dacha. It had to have been by subway. He vaguely remembered changing at Gallery Place, but things were a blur and only came into focus when Rawson came in the door.
“I want to make love to you right now,” he told Rawson.
“If husbands and wives said that every time one of them got home, there would be no divorces.” Rawson put down his briefcase.
“Is that a no?” Matt asked.
“It's a delaying tactic while I think about whether I need to shower first.”
Matt grabbed him. “I need you now, baby. Right now.” Matt got no argument from Rawson.
“You can't do that!” Alistair told Fred.
“The hell I can't. I have control and I have the courts on my side. Under EEC preferences, I have rights to the continent.”
“What does your husband say?”
“Who? John? Why would he care?”
“It's his company you are screwing.”
“It's John I'm screwing, not his company. And he's delighted with the arrangement. I need you to recommend us to the Royal Museums of Art and History. We want to start with the Musical Instrument Museum. If it's a cock-up there, no one will know.”
“Well … of course, I'll recommend you. Who are you talking to?” Alistair was being compliant. That approach would give him time to think.
Fred punched her phone. “Who are we talking to in Brussels?” Fred demanded and drummed her fingers waiting for the answer. “Robin Peeters? 'Robin' is Belgian?” She gave Alistair an impatient look while nearly crushing the phone in her hand. “Oh, alright. Of course I believe you. I married you didn't I?”
“Was that John?”
Fred picked up her purse, ready to leave. “No. One of the others. I forget his name.”
“Like bloody hell you do ...” Alistair was truly annoyed.
“Algernon … Albert … Alonzo ... something like that,” she said with a smile. “Now don't get pouty on me, Alistair.”
Her callousness should not have been a surprise; but her action, so early in a partnership, was a new tack. Usually she waited for the relationship to sour for some reason and then used that as a pretext for pulling the plug. In this case the first article had not yet been delivered; how could she know she even had a product to steal, Alistair questioned.
Alistair phoned Tom and got Heiko instead. “Yes, Hendryk, I was wondering how close you are to a full scale test. The demo was nice last week, but are we close to the real thing?”
“We could do it now, Mr. Dragon, if we had more data loaded. Unfortunately, the BFL took that task for themselves as a UK exclusive and Tom has no control over their work schedules. I believe they plan to have eighteenth and nineteenth century portraits loaded by the end of the month.”
“What if I lend out some of them. Could we do a satellite installation? In Norwich, say?”
“Easy. That wouldn't be a problem at all, sir.”
Alistair could picture Heiko sitting, alone in his office, talking on the phone, casually rubbing his cock, feeling a slight engorgement, rubbing a little more, enjoying the prickly sensation in his balls, spreading his legs a little wider … Oooo, such a pretty boy, Alistair thought. And Fred is going to put him out of business. He closed his eyes and pictured Heiko leaning back in his chair, shirtless now, his trousers taut with the beginnings of an erection. Oh, to kneel at those feet, help him off with his shoes, his calves are hairy, I'm sure of it, might as well get his socks off, too. Alistair smiled as he watched Heiko's image laugh. I should have known his feet would be ticklish. Licking his toes would have to wait. He'd undo his belt for me, of course. He be a little eager. He wouldn't make me do all the work. Then I'd only be a snap and a zipper away from …
The jangle of his phone blew the illusion away.
“What are you doing?” Edmund asked.
“Uh … planning an art loan,” Alistair answered.
“Oh, I thought you might have that German boy naked and posing for you by now.”
“Edmund, you rascal. After all these years … hah! The German boy … of all people.” Alistair was surprised by the persistence of his erection as he tried to dismiss his thoughts of Heiko. A small circle of moisture appeared in starkness against the medium gray of his pantleg.
Alistair cleared his throat. “He is cute, though. Anyway, we need to pursue the idea of a load of some portraits to East Anglia. Do you think there are any famous East Angles whose portrait the BA might hold?”
“Well, there are a few. Admiral Nelson learned to sail here, Julian of ..., our medieval mystic monk, Sir Thomas Browne, author … uh, the Norwich School of Painters – Crome, Colson, Stannard … Robert Kett, the revolutionary, and a favorite of yours Eddie Izzard.”
“Eddie Izzard? Really?” Alistair loved the transvestite comedian.
“Studied at East Anglia, actually …“
“I wonder if I asked, whether Eddie Izzard would agreeable to posing ...”
“Are you joking? He'd do it in a minute.”
“Well, Edmund, one can never be certain of these things. Anyway, could you see if … what's her name? … here it is … Miss H. Cromarty at the University library would see me this weekend? We can buy her a drink or something. Do you think she eats? Looked terribly thin the last time I saw her.”
“Ben, put your clothes on. I have to leave for work.” Alfred had finished shaving and bustled around the bedroom dressing.
“Never. I'm never wearing clothes again. And I'm sleeping in your bed every night. And you're going to teach me how to do all the things you did to me last night.”
“Come on. You need to check in at the school and I need to get to my office.” Alfred was afraid to look at Ben; giving in to Ben's 'just once more' would be too tempting.
“Oh … alright.” Ben hopped out of the bed with a physical agility that didn't match his verbal reluctance. He pulled Alfred to his naked body and kissed him. “I like the kissing part ...”
“So do I,” Alfred admitted. Ben's body seemed to fit against Alfred's perfectly. Alfred let his hand slip slowly down Ben's back to rest on what at the moment seemed like the most fuckable butt in the world.
“I like it when you do that.”
“Do what?” Alfred asked.
“Hold me by the arse like you own it. Nobody has ever done that.”
With more cajoling, Alfred got Ben dressed and onto the bus to city center. A few of the other passengers on the bus must have figured out the relationship. Ben still had that freshly fucked, dreamy look and Alfred couldn't avoid looking at his latest conquest with pride and pleasure.
“You get the bus over at that corner, Ben. They run often and you'll get to the Uni in about ten minutes.”
“Do I get to sleep with you again?”
Alfred didn't answer directly. “Here's my mobile number. Call when you're settled and we'll see.” Ben left and waved to Alfred without looking back. Alfred sighed to himself, glad to be free of Ben and at the same time hoping he would call soon.
He got to his office three minutes late and answered the waiting summons from Mr. Huxley. “At last, Booth …” Huxley said, looking at his watch. “Something is wrong with Glover. Go to his flat and see if he's still alive.” The tone of Huxley's order said George was certainly alive but perhaps having some kind of difficulty.
“Take a taxi,” Huxley appended to his order. Spending money for a car meant Huxley was concerned. Alfred hurried.
Fifteen minutes later, Alfred rang the bell of a tiny house in a close, northwest of Norwich Castle. A bleary-eyed George Glover answered the door in a robe. “Booth ...” he muttered and stood aside so Alfred could enter.
“George, Mr. Huxley asked me to ...”
“Eustace has left me,” George announced flatly. “For a bookkeeper … a bookkeeper at Marks and Spencer.” George held his palms out in astonishment. “Would you like a drink? Brandy maybe?”
“Brandy at nine in the morning? You think I am Winston Churchill?” Alfred tried to lighten the mood.
“More like Princess Margaret.” George had to chuckle at his own comparison. “That's not fair. You're nothing like Princess Margaret. Eustace is, though.”
“Dead you mean?” Alfred was losing the thread of George's thought.
“Here. Join me. Just a sip.” George splashed something brown from an elegant cut-glass decanter into what looked like a jelly jar.
Alfred sniffed. “Raspberry?”
“The jelly was. Not the brandy.” George plopped heavily down into a chair. His robe fell open. He closed it in an unconcerned way but not before Alfred noticed a tattoo, some kind of symbol where there had not been one before.
“Er, Eustace has left? I didn't know he was here.”
“That trip to Ipswitch? The one you and I were supposed to make? Eustace came to my hotel room and he never left me until Friday.” George tossed back a huge swallow of brandy. “At least I thought he never left. It turns out he may have been getting around more than … more than YOU, for example.” George freshened Alfred's drink as well as his own. “Not that I blame you … I didn't spend many nights alone when I was your age.”
“George, you're not much older.”
“But I feel millennial. Is that the right word?” George chuckled cynically and his robe fell open again. “Little Dickie still works, though.” He closed it again.
“Um, yes … George, you can't just wallow in this. You need to ...”
“Why can't I? Hm? Why can't I wallow a bit?” He rose and walked to his front window, looking out at nothing in particular.
Alfred stood at his side. “You'll get over it.” He put a comforting hand on George's shoulder. George half-turned and put a comforting hand on Alfred's cock. “George,” Alfred admonished.
“Your little guy still works, too,” George said as he gently massaged. “Not so little, as I recall.” George felt the cock grow within his grasp. “Not so little at all.”
“George, we can't ...”
“Why not?”
The unanswerable question. Why not? Especially when nobody really wants to answer it. Neither the person who asks it nor the person expected to answer is listening for words. Why not? was not really a question at all. George wouldn't have asked it if he thought Alfred had a answer. Alfred's answer was a growing erection.
To Alfred, all his possible objections seemed like prissy quibbles once he felt George unzip him. If you don't cut these things off immediately, you might as well go through with them. George was a good fuck; let's get it done, Alfred decided.
A half hour later, the freshly-fucked George was not as bright-eyed as Ben had been, but he was chipper enough, considering the amount of brandy he had consumed.
“Do you feel better?” Alfred asked.
“Yes and no,” George answered. “I think I'll miss you more than Eustace.”
“The office. You'll see me every day almost.”
“That's not the part I'll miss. Tell Huxley I'll be in around noon. I need a nap.”
“We're going to a small country house in Brittany for a long weekend, if that's ok,” Heiko told Tom. “I'll be back on Tuesday. This is my sexual compatibility test, I think.”
“Do you want to leave today? After your killer presentation yesterday, I probably need to hide you or somebody will make you a better offer than we can.”
“Could I? At the end of the day, of course. We could get an early start tomorrow morning then and be there by noon.” Heiko seemed optimistic about spending a long weekend with Zenzi on a quiet French beach.
“Go now, if you want. There's nothing that can't wait until Tuesday.”
“Actually there is. I need to test some comm links with Alameda. To make sure our BFL partners can't screw us.”
“You think they would? We've kind of got John Sherman embedded there. He'll give us a heads-up.”
“Will he? Probably. But it doesn't hurt to be sure. Trust but verify …”
“What are you doing?”
“Cyril can slick the system from Alameda without detection, he thinks, using a European mirror site. We want to test it.”
“I guess that's better for a Thursday than invading Denmark.” Tom smiled to himself and went to a meeting with Andrew Barwick, a catalog manager for the museum.
“Hello, Mr. Barwick,” he said and introduced himself.
“We met at Alistair's last Sunday. Just briefly,” Barwick answered.
“Yes, you were with a very attractive redhead. I remember.”
“She dumped me for a more attractive opportunity named Dabney.”
“Is that a male or female name. I can't tell.”
“I couldn't, either, based on looks; but if I had to guess, I'd say female.”
“I'm sorry.” Tom wondered where this talk was going; data entry seemed the farthest thing from Barwick's mind.
“Don't be. If it hadn't been Dabney, she wanted to molest that young American with you. Hendrick? Was that his name?”
Ah-ha, Tom though. Heiko has conquered another one. “He's actually German, but he's studying at Stanford University in California,” Tom explained.
“Really? Maybe we should have let them win …” Barwick waited for Tom's laugh, which never came. “Er, yes … well, we were hoping to work out a training programme with him.”
“Heiko's committed to something else until Tuesday. Maybe I could help in the meantime.” Tom sat and spread his legs a bit. Barwick's wandering eyes checked him out.
“Let's talk over a tea break.” Barwick led the way to a door marked Tea Room. They entered and looked at what was left of a long defunct buffet room. Barwick just smiled and cupped Tom's package.
“Tea?” Tom queried.
“Tea later,” Barwick said. He unzipped Tom and extracted his cock. “Would the German boy have gone for this?”
“Probably not,” Tom answered as he undid Barwick's trousers.
“Are you going to suck me?”
“No,” Tom answered. “Turn around and bend over.”
“Yes!” Barwick acknowledged. “You have a condom?” he asked, indifferent to whether they proceeded or not.
“Yes, it's prelubed.”
It seemed like sex that neither one of them particularly wanted, but their cocks were hard and the players were willing if not eager. At the climax, of course, their involvement increased. Guys are always into it at the end, no matter the circumstances. Tom pumped and came and gave Barwick a courtesy reach-around, jacking him off before withdrawing his cock.
“You're still hard,” Barwick noticed.
“Yeah, you want to go again?” Tom paused, waiting to fasten his pants.
“No, but I'll remember for the next time. You're big, too,” Barwick noted.
Tom was tempted to say “So's your ass”; but he decided that wouldn't help anything.
Lucky was cheered by the arrival of the mail. He sat in their living area and opened the envelopes. There were more donations. Three of the checks were for a thousand each and the donors reported that they were responding to the recommendation of Kaden Ali Khan. Lucky knew every donation would make the Merridell interests more comfortable with their decisions to endow the museum and to make Lucky its head.
The baby's progress was slow, but the doctor had warned that it would be a long process. Lucky accepted the doctor's words, but Al didn't. There was nothing she could do about it, but it was not in her nature to remain passive and let nature work its magic. 'Tincture of time' was the worst medicine Al had ever heard of. If there were a mechanical way to operate the baby's kidneys, Al would be running the pump. She fretted over everything, worried endlessly, and exhausted herself trying to work, advise the doctor, and run the baby's treatment as well.
“The case isn't that remarkable. A hundred years ago this little girl's survival would have been a miracle; but today it's routine. We pay close attention, of course, but the outcome, namely a healthy young girl, is all but assured,” the doctor told her more than once. Despite the words, Al worried, paced, stayed up nights, and did a half-assed job of all of it. That's what mother's do, some more successfully than others.
Lucky put down the mail and prepared a deposit slip for the newly arrived checks. He should have hired an assistant, but the operation was still small enough that he could handle the administration himself. The construction plans he left up to Mike, sitting ten feet away and looking very cute with a frown on his face.
“Lucky, maybe we could restore the art to the garage. It really most impressive in its original setting. And it would be tons … like millions … cheaper. The main house could be the expansion area. Leave the school there for now – it more than pays its own way – and take it over as your needs grow. It's impressive, though. Maybe we could set you up a suite of offices there.”
“Would there be a bed in any of those offices?”
Mike looked perplexed. “You can furnish them any way you want, I guess. A day bed, maybe leather, could work.”
“Would it have you on it?”
Mike smiled, catching on; he wasn't used to joking about work. He could joke at work, but never about work; it just wasn't in him to do that. Sex, on the other hand, was becoming much more an integral part of his life.
“Top or bottom?” Mike grinned.
“Sometimes a little of this; some times a little of that,” Lucky answered watching Mike walk over to him.
Mike lifted Lucky out of his chair and embraced him. “Little isn't a good description of either one of us.” Mike thrust his growing erection against Lucky. He was already fussing with buttons on Lucky's clothes.
“Wait! You can't fuck me on top of the bank deposit.”
“Do banks count protein deposits?” Mike had Lucky's pants down around his ankles and was raising his legs. “I don't think so. Banks wouldn't care if the protein was still liquid, I bet.” Lucky's pants were immobiling; Mike hooked both the pants and Lucky's entrapped ankles behind his head and dropped his own pants. He didn't mess around and put his cock right into Lucky, using a little precum as the only lube.
“Uhhhh!” Lucky gasped.
“Did I hurt you?” Mike asked.
“A little … that's ok … I like it when you hurt me a little,” Lucky gasped.
“I'm sorry, baby. I get so desperate for you.”
“Fuck me, Mikey.” Lucky pulled Mike into a kiss. “A little harder, babe. Oh … yes … Your cock curves just the right way … Mmmm.” Mike managed a contortion that let him suck Lucky's cock while still pumping his ass. “Fuck!” Lucky cried out. “Yes! Yes!” Lucky flooded Mike's mouth with semen almost as fast as Mike swallowed.
“But you didn't come,” Lucky complained as they dressed.
“That's ok. I didn't need it the same way you did. I can wait for tonight,” Mike explained. “And then I'll get even. Yes, I'll get even,” Mike growled. He chuckled when Lucky looked up, surprised and more than a little pleased by his determination.
Phil wandered aimlessly ending up at the Heldenorgen in time for a noontimePalestrina recital. Church music was definitely not his favorite, but it was free and the day was bright. He sat and ordered hot chocolate and waited for the concert to begin.
“Philip, may I join you?”
Of course. I need to thank you again for the rifle practice, Lothar.”
Lothar placed his coffee on Phil's table and sat. “Marcus is playing today and I want to hear. He is not the best organist in town, but he gets better every time he plays.”
“I wish I had fans as dedicated as you,” Phil answered.
“Oh, I have to listen,” Lothar laughed. “He is my best friend and his wife never comes.” Phil speculated that Lothar did not appreciate the sexual implication of his comment. “She has her hands full with four children,” he continued.
“Yes, I could tell you are very good friends.”
“His brother jokes that we should be lovers, we are so close. Are you and Alex …?”
“Lovers? Yes, we are.”
“No! I didn't intent to ask that … I was going to ask if you plan to play anywhere else in Austria.” Lothar blushed in confusion.
“We will play wherever we can get hired. We played on a ship and will probably do that again. Don't be embarrassed about us being lovers. I'm not.”
Marcus came down from the castle where the organ's pipes were housed and approached the glass enclosure that contained the keyboard console. He burst into a smile when he saw Lothar and waved. Phil watched Lothar smile in return as Marcus sat at the bench in front of the huge console.
Marcus played a motet, a lamentation, and a magnificat. His playing was competent but not nuanced, rather like the music itself, measured, ordered, and predictable. He bowed in response to polite applause from the small crowd in the square and then joined Lothar and Phil.
“Your playing really pointed out to me the discipline in Palestrina's musical forms,” Phil told Marcus, who was looking more for Lothar's approval. “I could never play with that precision and balance.”
“And I could never get people to pound the table and ask for more the way you do,” Marcus answered politely.
“Der schönster orgelspieler,” Lothar almost whispered. His eyes never left Marcus's face.
Phil wondered whether Lothar meant schönster to describe the playing or the player. In German, as in English, 'the most beautiful organist' could mean either one.. If this were Washington, he would have told the two of them to get a room; but it was Kufstein where the comment would hurt. Almost immeditely Marcus was called from the table by other friends.
“He liked what you said, I could tell,” Lothar said.
“You two are exceptional friends. You're lucky.”
“We are lovers who don't have sex, you mean? My brother has told me that, too.” They sipped their cups. “I don't think the possibility of sex has never occurred to Marcus. Please don't bring it up.”
“No. Never,” Phil quickly promised.
“Some pleasures he gets from his wife and some he gets from me. Different things,” Lothar tried to explain. “I like what we have; and I don't look for any more.”
“What you have is beautiful,” Phil agreed.
“Thank you. I will hear you play tonight?”
Will you come with Marcus?”
“I'm not sure. Maybe with Michael, another friend. Please don't even hint to Marcus anything ...”
“I promise I won't,” Phil replied.
“So … It's not a big part, but it's for the reopening of the theater. There will probably be New York critics there. You'll get noticed … What do you say?”
“I don't have to fuck anybody? Or get naked?” Matt asked.
“I don't know about the costumes, but no sex with anybody. I swear to you the director is straight … or as straight as anybody in the theater ever gets.” Ed Chesnel crossed his finger over his heart.
“Paris doesn't have much to say … but I'm not complaining,” Matt said. “He gets to kiss Juliet once.”
“He also gets to look good in every scene he's in. The concept is to show Paris off as a catch, a plausible rival to Romeo – make it look like Juliet has a very good alternative.”
Matt hugged Ed. “Thank you, thank you. I'll do my best.”
Ed pushed Matt away. “I only got you an audition. You have to get the part all by yourself.” He watched Matt leave the office. “An audition. OK? It was the best I could do. Satisfied, Wolfie?” he asked his author friend.
The building housing the Arena Stage was still covered in scaffolding inside and out. The remodeling looked to be months from completion. The rehearsal hall was dusty and badly lighted and the sounds of construction penetrated the walls like randomly timed cannon shots.
“I'm here to read for the part of Paris,” Matt told the girl at the desk. He handed her his resume and some photos of himself. He sat down to wait … and wait … and wait.
“Matt Mitchell?” the older man asked.
“Rodney! Good to see you. Are you here to read?” Matt recognized Rodney Young, a fellow survivor of the disastrous Othello production.
“I'm reading for the Prince. You?”
“Your Prince's cousin Paris.”
“What have you been up to since … ?” Rodney rolled his eyes at the memory.
“Nothing on stage. I'm a research assistant for a writer.”
“That beautiful body wasted in a library all the time? As I recall your dick was just about the best thing in ...” Rodney was interrupted by the director's assistant.
“Matt Mitchell? Matt Mitchell? … Hi. I'm Amy. Peter's ready for you now.”
“… the whole play,” Rodney sighed, talking to Matt's back.
Peter Parker was sitting with two aides at a table. “No jokes about the name,” helpful Amy advised.
“Hello, I'm Peter Parker, thanks for coming. You're here to read Paris?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ok, let's do it. We'll do the scene with Friar Lawrence in Act Four. Miss Abrams will play the Friar.” He indicated the woman on his left would read.
Miss Abrams whispered something into the director's ear. Parker explained, “Miss Abrams knows about your Othello. She wants to find a reason to get your clothes off.”
“Just ask ...” Matt shrugged and, trying to hide his annoyance, he started unbuttoning his shirt.
“No, stop!” Parker laughed. “She meant in the play. Just read,” he said still chuckling.
Matt read a page of dialog with Miss Abrams and then waited. “Alright. Walk back and forth as if you're Paris. A little more athletic, can you? Can you dance?”
“Yes,” Matt answered, not knowing if he was being completely truthful.
“Alright, thank you, Mr. … uh, Mitchell. Wait outside please. This won't take long.”
“How'd it go?” Rodney asked.
“I have no idea,” Matt answered. “I didn't do anything horrible, but … who knows?”
Matt sat and fidgeted while Rodney read. In short order, Rodney was out again, smiling. “Escalus the Prince and understudy for Capulet,” he beamed. “Good luck, Matt.”
Matt was called back. “We have two very appealing choices for Paris and can't really decide,” Peter Parker explained. “If you don't get the Paris, would you accept the Peter?” Matt's face showed his confusion. “The nurse's assistant role - that Peter.”
Matt didn't remember exactly how he got back to the dacha. It had to have been by subway. He vaguely remembered changing at Gallery Place, but things were a blur and only came into focus when Rawson came in the door.
“I want to make love to you right now,” he told Rawson.
“If husbands and wives said that every time one of them got home, there would be no divorces.” Rawson put down his briefcase.
“Is that a no?” Matt asked.
“It's a delaying tactic while I think about whether I need to shower first.”
Matt grabbed him. “I need you now, baby. Right now.” Matt got no argument from Rawson.
“You can't do that!” Alistair told Fred.
“The hell I can't. I have control and I have the courts on my side. Under EEC preferences, I have rights to the continent.”
“What does your husband say?”
“Who? John? Why would he care?”
“It's his company you are screwing.”
“It's John I'm screwing, not his company. And he's delighted with the arrangement. I need you to recommend us to the Royal Museums of Art and History. We want to start with the Musical Instrument Museum. If it's a cock-up there, no one will know.”
“Well … of course, I'll recommend you. Who are you talking to?” Alistair was being compliant. That approach would give him time to think.
Fred punched her phone. “Who are we talking to in Brussels?” Fred demanded and drummed her fingers waiting for the answer. “Robin Peeters? 'Robin' is Belgian?” She gave Alistair an impatient look while nearly crushing the phone in her hand. “Oh, alright. Of course I believe you. I married you didn't I?”
“Was that John?”
Fred picked up her purse, ready to leave. “No. One of the others. I forget his name.”
“Like bloody hell you do ...” Alistair was truly annoyed.
“Algernon … Albert … Alonzo ... something like that,” she said with a smile. “Now don't get pouty on me, Alistair.”
Her callousness should not have been a surprise; but her action, so early in a partnership, was a new tack. Usually she waited for the relationship to sour for some reason and then used that as a pretext for pulling the plug. In this case the first article had not yet been delivered; how could she know she even had a product to steal, Alistair questioned.
Alistair phoned Tom and got Heiko instead. “Yes, Hendryk, I was wondering how close you are to a full scale test. The demo was nice last week, but are we close to the real thing?”
“We could do it now, Mr. Dragon, if we had more data loaded. Unfortunately, the BFL took that task for themselves as a UK exclusive and Tom has no control over their work schedules. I believe they plan to have eighteenth and nineteenth century portraits loaded by the end of the month.”
“What if I lend out some of them. Could we do a satellite installation? In Norwich, say?”
“Easy. That wouldn't be a problem at all, sir.”
Alistair could picture Heiko sitting, alone in his office, talking on the phone, casually rubbing his cock, feeling a slight engorgement, rubbing a little more, enjoying the prickly sensation in his balls, spreading his legs a little wider … Oooo, such a pretty boy, Alistair thought. And Fred is going to put him out of business. He closed his eyes and pictured Heiko leaning back in his chair, shirtless now, his trousers taut with the beginnings of an erection. Oh, to kneel at those feet, help him off with his shoes, his calves are hairy, I'm sure of it, might as well get his socks off, too. Alistair smiled as he watched Heiko's image laugh. I should have known his feet would be ticklish. Licking his toes would have to wait. He'd undo his belt for me, of course. He be a little eager. He wouldn't make me do all the work. Then I'd only be a snap and a zipper away from …
The jangle of his phone blew the illusion away.
“What are you doing?” Edmund asked.
“Uh … planning an art loan,” Alistair answered.
“Oh, I thought you might have that German boy naked and posing for you by now.”
“Edmund, you rascal. After all these years … hah! The German boy … of all people.” Alistair was surprised by the persistence of his erection as he tried to dismiss his thoughts of Heiko. A small circle of moisture appeared in starkness against the medium gray of his pantleg.
Alistair cleared his throat. “He is cute, though. Anyway, we need to pursue the idea of a load of some portraits to East Anglia. Do you think there are any famous East Angles whose portrait the BA might hold?”
“Well, there are a few. Admiral Nelson learned to sail here, Julian of ..., our medieval mystic monk, Sir Thomas Browne, author … uh, the Norwich School of Painters – Crome, Colson, Stannard … Robert Kett, the revolutionary, and a favorite of yours Eddie Izzard.”
“Eddie Izzard? Really?” Alistair loved the transvestite comedian.
“Studied at East Anglia, actually …“
“I wonder if I asked, whether Eddie Izzard would agreeable to posing ...”
“Are you joking? He'd do it in a minute.”
“Well, Edmund, one can never be certain of these things. Anyway, could you see if … what's her name? … here it is … Miss H. Cromarty at the University library would see me this weekend? We can buy her a drink or something. Do you think she eats? Looked terribly thin the last time I saw her.”
“Ben, put your clothes on. I have to leave for work.” Alfred had finished shaving and bustled around the bedroom dressing.
“Never. I'm never wearing clothes again. And I'm sleeping in your bed every night. And you're going to teach me how to do all the things you did to me last night.”
“Come on. You need to check in at the school and I need to get to my office.” Alfred was afraid to look at Ben; giving in to Ben's 'just once more' would be too tempting.
“Oh … alright.” Ben hopped out of the bed with a physical agility that didn't match his verbal reluctance. He pulled Alfred to his naked body and kissed him. “I like the kissing part ...”
“So do I,” Alfred admitted. Ben's body seemed to fit against Alfred's perfectly. Alfred let his hand slip slowly down Ben's back to rest on what at the moment seemed like the most fuckable butt in the world.
“I like it when you do that.”
“Do what?” Alfred asked.
“Hold me by the arse like you own it. Nobody has ever done that.”
With more cajoling, Alfred got Ben dressed and onto the bus to city center. A few of the other passengers on the bus must have figured out the relationship. Ben still had that freshly fucked, dreamy look and Alfred couldn't avoid looking at his latest conquest with pride and pleasure.
“You get the bus over at that corner, Ben. They run often and you'll get to the Uni in about ten minutes.”
“Do I get to sleep with you again?”
Alfred didn't answer directly. “Here's my mobile number. Call when you're settled and we'll see.” Ben left and waved to Alfred without looking back. Alfred sighed to himself, glad to be free of Ben and at the same time hoping he would call soon.
He got to his office three minutes late and answered the waiting summons from Mr. Huxley. “At last, Booth …” Huxley said, looking at his watch. “Something is wrong with Glover. Go to his flat and see if he's still alive.” The tone of Huxley's order said George was certainly alive but perhaps having some kind of difficulty.
“Take a taxi,” Huxley appended to his order. Spending money for a car meant Huxley was concerned. Alfred hurried.
Fifteen minutes later, Alfred rang the bell of a tiny house in a close, northwest of Norwich Castle. A bleary-eyed George Glover answered the door in a robe. “Booth ...” he muttered and stood aside so Alfred could enter.
“George, Mr. Huxley asked me to ...”
“Eustace has left me,” George announced flatly. “For a bookkeeper … a bookkeeper at Marks and Spencer.” George held his palms out in astonishment. “Would you like a drink? Brandy maybe?”
“Brandy at nine in the morning? You think I am Winston Churchill?” Alfred tried to lighten the mood.
“More like Princess Margaret.” George had to chuckle at his own comparison. “That's not fair. You're nothing like Princess Margaret. Eustace is, though.”
“Dead you mean?” Alfred was losing the thread of George's thought.
“Here. Join me. Just a sip.” George splashed something brown from an elegant cut-glass decanter into what looked like a jelly jar.
Alfred sniffed. “Raspberry?”
“The jelly was. Not the brandy.” George plopped heavily down into a chair. His robe fell open. He closed it in an unconcerned way but not before Alfred noticed a tattoo, some kind of symbol where there had not been one before.
“Er, Eustace has left? I didn't know he was here.”
“That trip to Ipswitch? The one you and I were supposed to make? Eustace came to my hotel room and he never left me until Friday.” George tossed back a huge swallow of brandy. “At least I thought he never left. It turns out he may have been getting around more than … more than YOU, for example.” George freshened Alfred's drink as well as his own. “Not that I blame you … I didn't spend many nights alone when I was your age.”
“George, you're not much older.”
“But I feel millennial. Is that the right word?” George chuckled cynically and his robe fell open again. “Little Dickie still works, though.” He closed it again.
“Um, yes … George, you can't just wallow in this. You need to ...”
“Why can't I? Hm? Why can't I wallow a bit?” He rose and walked to his front window, looking out at nothing in particular.
Alfred stood at his side. “You'll get over it.” He put a comforting hand on George's shoulder. George half-turned and put a comforting hand on Alfred's cock. “George,” Alfred admonished.
“Your little guy still works, too,” George said as he gently massaged. “Not so little, as I recall.” George felt the cock grow within his grasp. “Not so little at all.”
“George, we can't ...”
“Why not?”
The unanswerable question. Why not? Especially when nobody really wants to answer it. Neither the person who asks it nor the person expected to answer is listening for words. Why not? was not really a question at all. George wouldn't have asked it if he thought Alfred had a answer. Alfred's answer was a growing erection.
To Alfred, all his possible objections seemed like prissy quibbles once he felt George unzip him. If you don't cut these things off immediately, you might as well go through with them. George was a good fuck; let's get it done, Alfred decided.
A half hour later, the freshly-fucked George was not as bright-eyed as Ben had been, but he was chipper enough, considering the amount of brandy he had consumed.
“Do you feel better?” Alfred asked.
“Yes and no,” George answered. “I think I'll miss you more than Eustace.”
“The office. You'll see me every day almost.”
“That's not the part I'll miss. Tell Huxley I'll be in around noon. I need a nap.”
Rory,
Thanks for the update all around.
Fred really is an unscrupulous bitch, isn't she? And the courts would be on her side?
I guess it's good Alameda is prepping to do a test - bring the whole UK system down for breech of contract.
Lucky, the museum to be, the bambino, MIKE. And, on the other side, Matt and his acting career look to be getting a little boost.
Meanwhile, back in Austria . . . WHERE is he?!
And Alfred, dear, sweet, loveable slut boy.
And Tom and Heiko - back to Fred!
Thanks for the update all around.
Fred really is an unscrupulous bitch, isn't she? And the courts would be on her side?
I guess it's good Alameda is prepping to do a test - bring the whole UK system down for breech of contract.
Lucky, the museum to be, the bambino, MIKE. And, on the other side, Matt and his acting career look to be getting a little boost.
Meanwhile, back in Austria . . . WHERE is he?!
And Alfred, dear, sweet, loveable slut boy.
And Tom and Heiko - back to Fred!
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Fifty-Four
“Edmund …” Alistair drummed his fingers on his desk almost yelling into the speakerphone. “Julian of Norwich was a woman!”
“That's what you say,” Edmund chuckled. “Did you ask her dressmaker?”
“And …” Alistair added importantly, “ ...she was an anchoress.”
“I thought she was an authoress.”
“Not funny, Edmund. I could have embarrassed myself referring to some mythical abbot who was actually an abbess, anchoress, whatever.”
“Just say you meant the 'other' Julian of Norwich, the one who corrupted Boy George.”
Alistair ignored the suggestion. “Tom's database informed me. It's quite wonderful. The young German has put in all these informative features. It's not just a portrait catalog; it references other publications. Hypertexting and … something else. I forget what he called it.”
“Bezugnahme? It means reference.”
“Yes. How did you know that? Never mind. Did you talk to H. Cromarty?”
“Yes. She'd love some portraits and a computer terminal. How can she ever repay you? I suggested lemon curd. She cooks.”
“What does the 'H' stand for?” Alistair enquired.
“Huette.”
“Hwhat? Are you in a playful mood?”
“H-u-e-t-t-e. It's her name. She pronounces it Who-ette. And I am in a playful mood.”
“I should have known. All the tasty new students arrived. Have you a favorite already?”
“Several are in the running.”
“Hmmm. Speaking of favorites, Tom and his assistant will be coming Friday. We'll put up the portraits and install the computer Saturday, if 'Hugh-ette' is willing.”
“Who-ette, Alistair. Who-ette.”
“Aren't you going to ask me anything?” Heiko prodded.
“You want to try the new fish and chips van for lunch?” Tom asked.
“About France, I mean.”
“Do they have food vans in France? They don't seem very French.”
Heiko ignored Tom's dodge. “I think I can do it, Tom. I think I could marry her. It was a very nice weekend.” Heiko looked at his friend with a half smile, hoping for approval.
“Last I heard marriage isn't just a weekend; but what do I know? All that may have changed.”
“Be serious. What do you think?”
“I like you, Heiko. You're a great friend and coworker; but I can't give you advice. I really don't know you very well.”
“There must be something.”
“Go slow. Don't be in a hurry to do something major. I think that would be solid advice for anyone who has known his fiance for only two weeks.” They lapsed into silence. The clicking of keyboards was the only sound in the office.
“You could have known me very well. I hinted enough.” Heiko looked at his terminal screen, not at Tom.
“I always figured you were joking and I'd make a fool of myself if I took you seriously.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I don't know ...” Tom quickly changed the subject. “Let's concentrate on what lies ahead. What will it be for lunch?”
“No food van. I don't trust those things.” Heiko made a face.
“What? At home, they're all over Oakland and Emeryville.”
“Yes, but those vans sell more dope than food. It's like the container ships offload the dope directly into the food vans, which sell it to the men who unload the ships, who pay for the dope with the bribes they get from the smugglers on the ships. It's a closed economic system, nobody actually buys the food.”
“I've bought the food ... some of it. Where did you get that idea?” Tom was astonished.
“Econ 301 – Micro-entrepreneurship. I think the professor checked out a lot of the vans personally.”
Tom looked at Heiko to see if he was joking. He wasn't; he had an earnest expression that made Tom want to keep talking. Heiko's attractiveness asserted itself without warning. Tom heard Heiko's words again. I could have known him better. Heiko sat there quietly smoldering, looking sexy without trying. His appeal really stood out, Tom thought. Stood out? That only made him think of Heiko with an erection. He coughed and got up from his desk. “Ok, how about that curry place ... Bombay Bedlam?”
“Ptomaine Ptandoori ... I know a place where you can see the cook wash his hands.”
“Where's that?”
“My room has a little kitchen. I can make lunch.”
Fifteen minutes later, Tom sat in Heiko's room rehearsing the plans to install the terminal in East Anglia's library and watching Heiko make lunch with speedy efficiency. Some kind of pickled beef, red cabbage and apples, something like macaroni and cheese, and two bottles of Beck's quickly appeared on the table. Tom finished with his step by step plans at the same time Heiko finished with the meal preparations.
“Delikatessen,” Heiko announced, giving the word its proper German sound and opening the screw-top beer bottles.
“How did you do all this without doing anything?” Tom asked, gesturing at the food.
“The truth? Zenzi made it. I just warmed it up.” After a pause, Heiko added, “She gave me more than I could ever eat. I will look like Bismarck, if I eat all the food she gives me,” he reflected. “I like the idea of giving the students access to the terminal. If anybody can give it a rigorous test, they can.”
The domesticity of the lunch table brought unbidden and intimate images of Heiko and Zenzi to Tom's thoughts. He couldn't get rid of them.
“Everything is fine, Rory,” John Sherman stated. He was speaking loudly, even thought the international phone connection was perfect. “The joint venture should see it's first actual revenue because of an add-on to the contract that Tom and Alistair cooked up. Some kind of terminal at a school in Norwich. It won't be much money, but it will prime the pipeline. We can watch how the jv's financial arrangements work, how the money sloshes around, with little risk and on the British Museums dollar … er, pound, I mean.”
“Good. Is Heiko working out?”
“Yeah, he's fine. Everybody loves him. He even got us a small mention in 'Hello' magazine. He's dating a princess or something.
“Hello?”
“Yes, I'm here.”
“No, I meant the magazine. What's that?” Rory asked.
“It's kind of like 'People' in the US. Big, glossy, gossipy. They cover Fred a lot. Haven't mentioned me, although I've been in some of the pictures.”
Tell me if I should shut up. How are you doing? Personally, I mean?”
“So far, so good. I'm a convenience for Fred. She doesn't have to look around somebody when she's in the mood. I'm right there in the next bed ... That's not fair to her, really. She's much nicer than I'm making her sound.”
“Good. Good for you, John. Have there been any discussions of follow-on sales? I ask because the arrangements Tom made with the DeYoung is leading to some talks with a museum in Taiwan.”
“No, nothing. Not a word. I'll bring it up at the next board meeting.” John ended the call and resolved to bring up future sales possibilities immediately. He called Fred's appointments secretary and asked if he could see her.
Five minutes later Fred rose from her desk, crossed the room, and gave John a polite kiss as he entered her office. “John, you don't need an appointment. The door is always open. You're my husband, after all.” She gave him another kiss. “My confidant. My handsome lover. What other titles can we think up?”
“Constant companion?”
Fred laughed in a light-hearted way and led the conversation to interior decoration. “What do you think of this color? I'm tired of the incessant red, blue, and white that the 'British Foreign Legion Group' name has forced on us.”
“Blue and red equals purple. How about something basic with purple highlights?”
“Purple seems … mmm ... imperial, I think. But a rich cream is a good idea. See? You're already earning you pay.” Fred gave John a warm smile.
“What do you think of the possibility of the joint venture pursuing business abroad? Something close by … in Europe. The Norwich add-on gave me the idea.”
“Well ...” Fred temporized. “I'd really like to see a solid product delivered first. It's a disaster to over-promise customer number two something that doesn't even exist in the hands of customer number one. Really damaging to one's reputation if there's any kind of ... But that's a wonderful idea, John. It's something we definitely need to look at. No question about it.” She was interrupted by the secretary.
“The Belgian Commercial Attache is here ...”
“What's that about?” John asked.
“Something about beer, I think. Maybe he'll offer us a case to sample. I'll send him to your office if he does,” Fred joked as she gave John a little push toward the door. “Mr. De Vrije, come in please,” she called to her visitor. “Allons-nous parler Francais?
“I prefer English,” he replied. “Your invitation was so interesting. How have you become interested in the Museum of Musical Instruments? Only after your inquiry did I learn we have one.”
“I've become interested in cataloging,” Fred replied, giving the Belgian gentleman an insouciant smile and a flash of cleavage, as she unbuttoned her jacket. “Can I offer you something? Coffee? Brandy? We think cataloging is going to be important.”
“He thinks Romeo and I should wrestle nude.” Matt kept his tone even.
“That would sell a lot of tickets,” Ed Chesnel said. “What did you think about it, Matt?”
“Fortunately I didn't have to think about anything. Romeo said no, flat out no, and he is the deciding vote. Can't have just one nude wrestler, I guess. Romeo in a doublet, pantaloons, and a plumed hat. Me nude.”
“You'd sell a LOT of tickets,” Ed repeated, making it plain he was joking. “Did Romeo object for artistic reasons?”
“Small dick. That's what another guy told me.”
Ed burst out laughing. “That would be a scene killer. Might even be a play killer if the audience couldn't get their minds off Romeo's shortcomings.”
“It's the director's assistant, I think. She saw me in Othello and is obsessed with the idea of working some kind of nudity into the production.”
“Wait until Jeff hears about this. You don't mind if I tell him, do you? Or do you want to? It's a good story for a dinner party.”
“I'm not going to any dinners, so feel free.”
“What? You're not going to European Union thing with Rawson?”
“First I've heard of it,” Matt answered without much interest.
“But .. a young actor who looks good in a tuxedo? You're exactly what they always want at those things. You're perfect.”
Matt shrugged. “Tell Jeff I left the folder on touring costs on his desk. There's a split between foreign companies and local US troupes before World War One. After the war, the costs were pretty much the same.”
Matt left the office and began walking to the Metro. He went over the nudity business in his mind, not knowing how to face the issue. The production was important as the premier offering for reopening the theater. He could understand the need for a gimmick, something to get the widest attention. Having Romeo and Juliet fuck had pretty much been done by an Italian director; but trying to replace what is barely a shoving contest between Paris and Romeo's people with nude wrestling would totally disrupt the action and become a spectacle in its own right. Was there an alternative? One that wouldn't embarrass Romeo? Maybe it was just malicious gossip about his dick anyway. Maybe the nurse could be more bawdy. The nurse and … who, he wondered. It would need to be a surprise, not predictable. The nurse and the friar? That might work. Let the friar show off his body. He actually had a decent body; they wouldn't have to stuff him into a fat suit. Fat friars are a cliché anyway. Maybe they could have a sexy friar …
“Deep in thought, he failed to realize his pocket was being picked ...”
Matt heard the words and felt a hand slip into his back pocket. He laughed when he felt Misha squeeze his ass.
“Misha … what are you doing on the subway? What happened to the sexy wheels?”
“The purchaser of the sexy wheels took 'em back when he threw me out. Now I'm picking pockets and squeezing hot guys' asses on the subway. Not much picking, mostly squeezing. Like my technique?”
“Shouldn't you wait for more of a crowd? ” Matt gestured around the very uncrowded, mid-day subway car.
“Yeah, the stretch between Gallery Place and Metro Center is the best … lots of people. 'Clients', as I call them.”
“Clients? Are you ...”
“I'm still a hustler, yeah. It's what I do best. The short-term clients are better, on the whole. Without much time investment, telling the real trolls no isn't so damaging financially. And you, my love? What are you up to? Still searching?”
“Researching. Yes, but it's not full time now. I got a part, Paris, in a new Romeo and Juliet.”
“The one at the Arena? Really? My God, that's almost Broadway. How much time on a casting couch did that take?”
“None, but Paris isn't a big part. The thing is ...”
“Now what are you bitching about?”
“They're still trying to figure out a way to get my clothes off.”
“So am I, sweetie. So am I. I'll give you my $500 session for $50.”
“Misha, be serious.”
“I am being serious. Ninety percent off is no joke.”
“Quit it,” Matt said in a friendly way. He removed Misha's hand from his ass.
“Why are we standing in an empty car?” Misha pushed Matt into a seat. “Want a b.j.?” Misha ducked his head toward Matt's lap.
“Stop!” Matt pulled Misha's head up.
“I take encouragement from the fact that I'm giving you a hard on.” Misha scanned the car after giving Matt's dick a final squeeze. The train slowed as they pulled into the Gallery Place station. The doors opened and people entered rapidly. “Bye-bye, love. I see a regular.”
Matt watched Misha approach a middle-aged man, who was dressed flamboyantly for Washington. He looked arty, prossibly someone from one of the many 7th Street galleries. Misha said something and the older man's face lit up. The two got off together at Metro Center and walked toward the stairs to the Orange and Blue Lines. Misha held the man's full attention with talk and touches. Matt bet himself that Misha was good at his job, Why wouldn't he be? Hustling, like most jobs, was just another form of acting. And I do have an erection, he realized.
Phil sat in his basement room and cried from frustration; and then he berated himself for crying. Where the fuck are you Alex? Why don't you call? He stared at his silent cell phone and wondered if the situation was grave enough for a call to Dimitri. Florian Obstbauer! What a stupid name! What a useless contact! How fucking incompetent can the Russian customs service be?
He plopped onto the bed and lay back closing his eyes. His head filled with images of Alex immediately. I just want to see him smile at me, Phil thought. In his head Alex smiled and kissed his cheek. Phil felt the physical sensation of the imaginary touch. I love you, Alex, but love shouldn't hurt this much. His anguish tore at him as he pictured Alex by his side walking back from Kiefersfelden. He ached to have him in his arms
“Phil?” Andi called from the door. A gentle knock followed. “I'm sure he's here,” Andi said to some unknown person.
Phil wiped his eyes and opened the door.
“Phil! I want you to meet Mariel,” Andi said excitedly. “Mariel's going to work with us here at the Gisela.”
Mariel was a pretty young girl dressed in the Gisela uniform, the traditional white blouse, the colorful skirt and apron of the Tyrol. She nodded shyly and spoke in a stilted English she was unsure of. “I'm very pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Sir?” Phil smiled. “I work here, too. Um, ich auch hier arbeite. Ich bin Phil.”
“Mariel will be staying in the room next to mine,” Andi announced. “We must dress modestly in the bathroom.” Giggling, the two walked to Andi's room.
Phil checked his watch and saw he had an hour before the bar would be open. He decided lying on his bed wasn't the best use of that hour. He went to the lobby and found Sepi.
“Sepi, got anything I can do?”
“Ach … maybe you can change euros into gold? This economy ...”
“...sucks,” Phil filled in.
“Sauge?” Sepi tried out the verb. “Yes. Good word for it. You want to help set up for dinner? There won't be many people.”
“I met Mariel,” Phil volunteered.
“Yes, Andi's mother and I think he needs someone. He's old enough.” Sepi looked at Phil pointedly. “I didn't like him spending a night in your room.”
“Sepi, nothing happened. Honest. He fell asleep after a couple glasses of wine.”
“I'm sure, but Andi is young and he admires you greatly. And he is maybe a temptation to you with your friend away.” Sepi's words were blunt but not accusatory.
“You don't have to worry.”
“Good. And I wasn't worried. I like you and Alex, too. You remind me of another couple, I knew once.”
The conversation ended as Phil busied himself with table settings. Sepi had solved the mystery of how the beds in Zimmer 15 ended up together. He's an old romantic, Phil concluded. He wondered if Sepi was one-half of the couple he knew once. “Sepi? This couple we remind you of?”
Sepi appeared at the door and laughed. “The whole town knows but they pretend not to. So why shouldn't I tell you? Myself and a handsome young man named Andreas took over this hotel thirty years ago. Everybody liked him. I especially liked him. Andi is named for him. He died in a skiing accident.” Sepi went back to the front desk before Phil could offer sympathy.
After setting the tables, Phil wanted to stay busy, so he swept the central lobby and a sitting room. And then he wiped the barroom tables. And then he buffed the glass steins to an even higher shine.
“Why are you suddenly such a gipfelstürmer?” Sepi asked.
“A what?”
“Some young fool who runs up to the top of a mountain fueled by alcohol. Why are you doing all this work?”
“I want to stay busy. Keep my mind off things.”
“Things like Alex? Where is he, Philip?”
“I don't know,” Phil said simply. “I wish I knew.”
Before Sepi could ask another question, Mariel and Andi appeared to help with the dinner service.
Mike suddenly looked up from his blueprints. “Lucky, you realize that we're all going to have to move? Your museum is going to displace us all. Matt and Rawson, Tom, when he comes back, Al and Debbie … I guess Ann is already gone.”
“Not tomorrow. There's no emergency evacuation planned.”
“Soon. Before too long. Where will we go? We can't live anywhere near here for what we're paying.”
“A.U. Park? Tunlaw? There are lots of apartments there. Virginia? Upper 16th Street? That's almost trendy. I don't much like Adams-Morgan, though …”
“I just realized I really like it here,” Mike said.
“Of course you like it here. That's why the Merridells were asking millions for the place. Anybody would like it here.”
“I always liked it here; but now I like it because of you. You're part of the place. I can't imagine anything else.”
“We'll just have to save our money and give the Merridells about twenty million and then we can live here forever. Problem solved.”
“Lucky, we're never going to have twenty million.” Mike was being deadly serious.
“How do you know?”
“It's not a realistic expectation.”
“Come here.” Lucky held out his arms to Mike.
“Sex isn't the answer to everything. We have to think.”
“I think best when you're fucking me. Come here.” Lucky again held out his arms but Mike sat immobile. Lucky got up and walked over to him.
“We've got no place to go, Lucky. We've got two children who are going to need us. We've got two women we're not married to and we depend on them for lots. And they're flaky sometimes. We've got ...”
“Mike, everybody has problems. We don't need to solve them all tonight. We can attack them one at a time. Where should we live? We need to talk to the girls and see what their thoughts are. We don't all have to live together, but we'd want to be close by. So, step one, we talk to Debbie and Al, ok?”
“Ok,” Mike acquiesced. He liked it when Lucky took charge. Mike was organized and logical; but Lucky's imagination could see around corners. Mike let Lucky lead him to bed and get his clothes off. Then the roles reversed.
Mike had learned every hot button Lucky had and just how to press them. Tonight he decided to keep Lucky uncertain. He started and stopped, he shifted and twisted. He touched Lucky teasingly and then grabbed him and thrust into his ass in a needy desperation. They came quickly and lay back getting their breath.
“Sometimes, my excellent lover, sex is everything. For a while it's all we need.” Lucky held Mike against his body and began whispering. “Tomorrow, you should start designing a house for us. Something comfortable, not lavish. We can't afford lavish. But something for ourselves, with room for a young visitor or two … Debbie and Al like working in the country, so that's probably what we should think about, too. What do you say? We'll talk to them, of course, but what do you say?”
Mike responded physically in a resonant way that said I love you over and over.
Alfred screwed up his face. He felt an odd stinging in his cock and wondered if he should see a doctor. It wasn't dramatic. No discharge, no lesion, just a stinging. The kind of stinging that you sometimes get from too much sex. Alfred had never felt it before. He had also never had as much sex before. He and Ben had been fucking as non-stop as youthful male anatomy permits for just short of twenty-four hours. A weak sun was setting when Alfred lay back and said, “Phew. I'm fucked out.”
“No,” Ben contradicted. “I'm fucked out, you are untouched so far. That's about to change.” And with that he began touching Alfred, and then stroking him, and then fucking him. And he was good at it. Ben came first. Then Alfred came once more with Ben still inside him and the stinging was worse.
“We have to stop. I've worn it out, I think.” Alfred held up his limp dick and let it drop down again.
“You know what?” Ben asked, sniffing the air. “We stink. Maybe we should have a bath. And then we can try this again. I have an idea for you on top, where you bend your legs and put your feet as close to my hips as you ...”
“A bath sounds great,” Alfred interrupted and got out of bed. He opened his bedroom door and saw there was a light on in the bathroom already.
“Are you done … at last?” his mother called out. “I'll be out of here in a minute.”
“I thought you were in Lincoln with that guy ...”
“I was. I'm back. Who's in there with you? That American?”
“No. A new friend, Ben.”
His mother stepped out of the bathroom and waved as she went down the stairs. “Don't wait up for me.” She sounded amused.
In the bright light of the bathroom, Alfred admired Ben's body. It looked even better glistening with water and soap suds. “I can't leave you alone,” he told Ben as he ran a wash cloth over Ben's pecs.
“Um-hmm, good,” Ben answered. He slipped his finger into Alfred's ass. “That was the first time I've ever fucked a bloke.” He wiggled his finger. “I want to do it again.” They splashed quite a lot of water onto the floor, but no one was ever in danger of drowning and when it was over Ben seemed to be fully satisfied.
“There's a problem, Alfred.”
“What?”
“I'll tell you next time. It kind of needs nudity and the lights out before I can tell you. Right now, I should get back to school and be a student for a few days.”
“Edmund …” Alistair drummed his fingers on his desk almost yelling into the speakerphone. “Julian of Norwich was a woman!”
“That's what you say,” Edmund chuckled. “Did you ask her dressmaker?”
“And …” Alistair added importantly, “ ...she was an anchoress.”
“I thought she was an authoress.”
“Not funny, Edmund. I could have embarrassed myself referring to some mythical abbot who was actually an abbess, anchoress, whatever.”
“Just say you meant the 'other' Julian of Norwich, the one who corrupted Boy George.”
Alistair ignored the suggestion. “Tom's database informed me. It's quite wonderful. The young German has put in all these informative features. It's not just a portrait catalog; it references other publications. Hypertexting and … something else. I forget what he called it.”
“Bezugnahme? It means reference.”
“Yes. How did you know that? Never mind. Did you talk to H. Cromarty?”
“Yes. She'd love some portraits and a computer terminal. How can she ever repay you? I suggested lemon curd. She cooks.”
“What does the 'H' stand for?” Alistair enquired.
“Huette.”
“Hwhat? Are you in a playful mood?”
“H-u-e-t-t-e. It's her name. She pronounces it Who-ette. And I am in a playful mood.”
“I should have known. All the tasty new students arrived. Have you a favorite already?”
“Several are in the running.”
“Hmmm. Speaking of favorites, Tom and his assistant will be coming Friday. We'll put up the portraits and install the computer Saturday, if 'Hugh-ette' is willing.”
“Who-ette, Alistair. Who-ette.”
“Aren't you going to ask me anything?” Heiko prodded.
“You want to try the new fish and chips van for lunch?” Tom asked.
“About France, I mean.”
“Do they have food vans in France? They don't seem very French.”
Heiko ignored Tom's dodge. “I think I can do it, Tom. I think I could marry her. It was a very nice weekend.” Heiko looked at his friend with a half smile, hoping for approval.
“Last I heard marriage isn't just a weekend; but what do I know? All that may have changed.”
“Be serious. What do you think?”
“I like you, Heiko. You're a great friend and coworker; but I can't give you advice. I really don't know you very well.”
“There must be something.”
“Go slow. Don't be in a hurry to do something major. I think that would be solid advice for anyone who has known his fiance for only two weeks.” They lapsed into silence. The clicking of keyboards was the only sound in the office.
“You could have known me very well. I hinted enough.” Heiko looked at his terminal screen, not at Tom.
“I always figured you were joking and I'd make a fool of myself if I took you seriously.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I don't know ...” Tom quickly changed the subject. “Let's concentrate on what lies ahead. What will it be for lunch?”
“No food van. I don't trust those things.” Heiko made a face.
“What? At home, they're all over Oakland and Emeryville.”
“Yes, but those vans sell more dope than food. It's like the container ships offload the dope directly into the food vans, which sell it to the men who unload the ships, who pay for the dope with the bribes they get from the smugglers on the ships. It's a closed economic system, nobody actually buys the food.”
“I've bought the food ... some of it. Where did you get that idea?” Tom was astonished.
“Econ 301 – Micro-entrepreneurship. I think the professor checked out a lot of the vans personally.”
Tom looked at Heiko to see if he was joking. He wasn't; he had an earnest expression that made Tom want to keep talking. Heiko's attractiveness asserted itself without warning. Tom heard Heiko's words again. I could have known him better. Heiko sat there quietly smoldering, looking sexy without trying. His appeal really stood out, Tom thought. Stood out? That only made him think of Heiko with an erection. He coughed and got up from his desk. “Ok, how about that curry place ... Bombay Bedlam?”
“Ptomaine Ptandoori ... I know a place where you can see the cook wash his hands.”
“Where's that?”
“My room has a little kitchen. I can make lunch.”
Fifteen minutes later, Tom sat in Heiko's room rehearsing the plans to install the terminal in East Anglia's library and watching Heiko make lunch with speedy efficiency. Some kind of pickled beef, red cabbage and apples, something like macaroni and cheese, and two bottles of Beck's quickly appeared on the table. Tom finished with his step by step plans at the same time Heiko finished with the meal preparations.
“Delikatessen,” Heiko announced, giving the word its proper German sound and opening the screw-top beer bottles.
“How did you do all this without doing anything?” Tom asked, gesturing at the food.
“The truth? Zenzi made it. I just warmed it up.” After a pause, Heiko added, “She gave me more than I could ever eat. I will look like Bismarck, if I eat all the food she gives me,” he reflected. “I like the idea of giving the students access to the terminal. If anybody can give it a rigorous test, they can.”
The domesticity of the lunch table brought unbidden and intimate images of Heiko and Zenzi to Tom's thoughts. He couldn't get rid of them.
“Everything is fine, Rory,” John Sherman stated. He was speaking loudly, even thought the international phone connection was perfect. “The joint venture should see it's first actual revenue because of an add-on to the contract that Tom and Alistair cooked up. Some kind of terminal at a school in Norwich. It won't be much money, but it will prime the pipeline. We can watch how the jv's financial arrangements work, how the money sloshes around, with little risk and on the British Museums dollar … er, pound, I mean.”
“Good. Is Heiko working out?”
“Yeah, he's fine. Everybody loves him. He even got us a small mention in 'Hello' magazine. He's dating a princess or something.
“Hello?”
“Yes, I'm here.”
“No, I meant the magazine. What's that?” Rory asked.
“It's kind of like 'People' in the US. Big, glossy, gossipy. They cover Fred a lot. Haven't mentioned me, although I've been in some of the pictures.”
Tell me if I should shut up. How are you doing? Personally, I mean?”
“So far, so good. I'm a convenience for Fred. She doesn't have to look around somebody when she's in the mood. I'm right there in the next bed ... That's not fair to her, really. She's much nicer than I'm making her sound.”
“Good. Good for you, John. Have there been any discussions of follow-on sales? I ask because the arrangements Tom made with the DeYoung is leading to some talks with a museum in Taiwan.”
“No, nothing. Not a word. I'll bring it up at the next board meeting.” John ended the call and resolved to bring up future sales possibilities immediately. He called Fred's appointments secretary and asked if he could see her.
Five minutes later Fred rose from her desk, crossed the room, and gave John a polite kiss as he entered her office. “John, you don't need an appointment. The door is always open. You're my husband, after all.” She gave him another kiss. “My confidant. My handsome lover. What other titles can we think up?”
“Constant companion?”
Fred laughed in a light-hearted way and led the conversation to interior decoration. “What do you think of this color? I'm tired of the incessant red, blue, and white that the 'British Foreign Legion Group' name has forced on us.”
“Blue and red equals purple. How about something basic with purple highlights?”
“Purple seems … mmm ... imperial, I think. But a rich cream is a good idea. See? You're already earning you pay.” Fred gave John a warm smile.
“What do you think of the possibility of the joint venture pursuing business abroad? Something close by … in Europe. The Norwich add-on gave me the idea.”
“Well ...” Fred temporized. “I'd really like to see a solid product delivered first. It's a disaster to over-promise customer number two something that doesn't even exist in the hands of customer number one. Really damaging to one's reputation if there's any kind of ... But that's a wonderful idea, John. It's something we definitely need to look at. No question about it.” She was interrupted by the secretary.
“The Belgian Commercial Attache is here ...”
“What's that about?” John asked.
“Something about beer, I think. Maybe he'll offer us a case to sample. I'll send him to your office if he does,” Fred joked as she gave John a little push toward the door. “Mr. De Vrije, come in please,” she called to her visitor. “Allons-nous parler Francais?
“I prefer English,” he replied. “Your invitation was so interesting. How have you become interested in the Museum of Musical Instruments? Only after your inquiry did I learn we have one.”
“I've become interested in cataloging,” Fred replied, giving the Belgian gentleman an insouciant smile and a flash of cleavage, as she unbuttoned her jacket. “Can I offer you something? Coffee? Brandy? We think cataloging is going to be important.”
“He thinks Romeo and I should wrestle nude.” Matt kept his tone even.
“That would sell a lot of tickets,” Ed Chesnel said. “What did you think about it, Matt?”
“Fortunately I didn't have to think about anything. Romeo said no, flat out no, and he is the deciding vote. Can't have just one nude wrestler, I guess. Romeo in a doublet, pantaloons, and a plumed hat. Me nude.”
“You'd sell a LOT of tickets,” Ed repeated, making it plain he was joking. “Did Romeo object for artistic reasons?”
“Small dick. That's what another guy told me.”
Ed burst out laughing. “That would be a scene killer. Might even be a play killer if the audience couldn't get their minds off Romeo's shortcomings.”
“It's the director's assistant, I think. She saw me in Othello and is obsessed with the idea of working some kind of nudity into the production.”
“Wait until Jeff hears about this. You don't mind if I tell him, do you? Or do you want to? It's a good story for a dinner party.”
“I'm not going to any dinners, so feel free.”
“What? You're not going to European Union thing with Rawson?”
“First I've heard of it,” Matt answered without much interest.
“But .. a young actor who looks good in a tuxedo? You're exactly what they always want at those things. You're perfect.”
Matt shrugged. “Tell Jeff I left the folder on touring costs on his desk. There's a split between foreign companies and local US troupes before World War One. After the war, the costs were pretty much the same.”
Matt left the office and began walking to the Metro. He went over the nudity business in his mind, not knowing how to face the issue. The production was important as the premier offering for reopening the theater. He could understand the need for a gimmick, something to get the widest attention. Having Romeo and Juliet fuck had pretty much been done by an Italian director; but trying to replace what is barely a shoving contest between Paris and Romeo's people with nude wrestling would totally disrupt the action and become a spectacle in its own right. Was there an alternative? One that wouldn't embarrass Romeo? Maybe it was just malicious gossip about his dick anyway. Maybe the nurse could be more bawdy. The nurse and … who, he wondered. It would need to be a surprise, not predictable. The nurse and the friar? That might work. Let the friar show off his body. He actually had a decent body; they wouldn't have to stuff him into a fat suit. Fat friars are a cliché anyway. Maybe they could have a sexy friar …
“Deep in thought, he failed to realize his pocket was being picked ...”
Matt heard the words and felt a hand slip into his back pocket. He laughed when he felt Misha squeeze his ass.
“Misha … what are you doing on the subway? What happened to the sexy wheels?”
“The purchaser of the sexy wheels took 'em back when he threw me out. Now I'm picking pockets and squeezing hot guys' asses on the subway. Not much picking, mostly squeezing. Like my technique?”
“Shouldn't you wait for more of a crowd? ” Matt gestured around the very uncrowded, mid-day subway car.
“Yeah, the stretch between Gallery Place and Metro Center is the best … lots of people. 'Clients', as I call them.”
“Clients? Are you ...”
“I'm still a hustler, yeah. It's what I do best. The short-term clients are better, on the whole. Without much time investment, telling the real trolls no isn't so damaging financially. And you, my love? What are you up to? Still searching?”
“Researching. Yes, but it's not full time now. I got a part, Paris, in a new Romeo and Juliet.”
“The one at the Arena? Really? My God, that's almost Broadway. How much time on a casting couch did that take?”
“None, but Paris isn't a big part. The thing is ...”
“Now what are you bitching about?”
“They're still trying to figure out a way to get my clothes off.”
“So am I, sweetie. So am I. I'll give you my $500 session for $50.”
“Misha, be serious.”
“I am being serious. Ninety percent off is no joke.”
“Quit it,” Matt said in a friendly way. He removed Misha's hand from his ass.
“Why are we standing in an empty car?” Misha pushed Matt into a seat. “Want a b.j.?” Misha ducked his head toward Matt's lap.
“Stop!” Matt pulled Misha's head up.
“I take encouragement from the fact that I'm giving you a hard on.” Misha scanned the car after giving Matt's dick a final squeeze. The train slowed as they pulled into the Gallery Place station. The doors opened and people entered rapidly. “Bye-bye, love. I see a regular.”
Matt watched Misha approach a middle-aged man, who was dressed flamboyantly for Washington. He looked arty, prossibly someone from one of the many 7th Street galleries. Misha said something and the older man's face lit up. The two got off together at Metro Center and walked toward the stairs to the Orange and Blue Lines. Misha held the man's full attention with talk and touches. Matt bet himself that Misha was good at his job, Why wouldn't he be? Hustling, like most jobs, was just another form of acting. And I do have an erection, he realized.
Phil sat in his basement room and cried from frustration; and then he berated himself for crying. Where the fuck are you Alex? Why don't you call? He stared at his silent cell phone and wondered if the situation was grave enough for a call to Dimitri. Florian Obstbauer! What a stupid name! What a useless contact! How fucking incompetent can the Russian customs service be?
He plopped onto the bed and lay back closing his eyes. His head filled with images of Alex immediately. I just want to see him smile at me, Phil thought. In his head Alex smiled and kissed his cheek. Phil felt the physical sensation of the imaginary touch. I love you, Alex, but love shouldn't hurt this much. His anguish tore at him as he pictured Alex by his side walking back from Kiefersfelden. He ached to have him in his arms
“Phil?” Andi called from the door. A gentle knock followed. “I'm sure he's here,” Andi said to some unknown person.
Phil wiped his eyes and opened the door.
“Phil! I want you to meet Mariel,” Andi said excitedly. “Mariel's going to work with us here at the Gisela.”
Mariel was a pretty young girl dressed in the Gisela uniform, the traditional white blouse, the colorful skirt and apron of the Tyrol. She nodded shyly and spoke in a stilted English she was unsure of. “I'm very pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Sir?” Phil smiled. “I work here, too. Um, ich auch hier arbeite. Ich bin Phil.”
“Mariel will be staying in the room next to mine,” Andi announced. “We must dress modestly in the bathroom.” Giggling, the two walked to Andi's room.
Phil checked his watch and saw he had an hour before the bar would be open. He decided lying on his bed wasn't the best use of that hour. He went to the lobby and found Sepi.
“Sepi, got anything I can do?”
“Ach … maybe you can change euros into gold? This economy ...”
“...sucks,” Phil filled in.
“Sauge?” Sepi tried out the verb. “Yes. Good word for it. You want to help set up for dinner? There won't be many people.”
“I met Mariel,” Phil volunteered.
“Yes, Andi's mother and I think he needs someone. He's old enough.” Sepi looked at Phil pointedly. “I didn't like him spending a night in your room.”
“Sepi, nothing happened. Honest. He fell asleep after a couple glasses of wine.”
“I'm sure, but Andi is young and he admires you greatly. And he is maybe a temptation to you with your friend away.” Sepi's words were blunt but not accusatory.
“You don't have to worry.”
“Good. And I wasn't worried. I like you and Alex, too. You remind me of another couple, I knew once.”
The conversation ended as Phil busied himself with table settings. Sepi had solved the mystery of how the beds in Zimmer 15 ended up together. He's an old romantic, Phil concluded. He wondered if Sepi was one-half of the couple he knew once. “Sepi? This couple we remind you of?”
Sepi appeared at the door and laughed. “The whole town knows but they pretend not to. So why shouldn't I tell you? Myself and a handsome young man named Andreas took over this hotel thirty years ago. Everybody liked him. I especially liked him. Andi is named for him. He died in a skiing accident.” Sepi went back to the front desk before Phil could offer sympathy.
After setting the tables, Phil wanted to stay busy, so he swept the central lobby and a sitting room. And then he wiped the barroom tables. And then he buffed the glass steins to an even higher shine.
“Why are you suddenly such a gipfelstürmer?” Sepi asked.
“A what?”
“Some young fool who runs up to the top of a mountain fueled by alcohol. Why are you doing all this work?”
“I want to stay busy. Keep my mind off things.”
“Things like Alex? Where is he, Philip?”
“I don't know,” Phil said simply. “I wish I knew.”
Before Sepi could ask another question, Mariel and Andi appeared to help with the dinner service.
Mike suddenly looked up from his blueprints. “Lucky, you realize that we're all going to have to move? Your museum is going to displace us all. Matt and Rawson, Tom, when he comes back, Al and Debbie … I guess Ann is already gone.”
“Not tomorrow. There's no emergency evacuation planned.”
“Soon. Before too long. Where will we go? We can't live anywhere near here for what we're paying.”
“A.U. Park? Tunlaw? There are lots of apartments there. Virginia? Upper 16th Street? That's almost trendy. I don't much like Adams-Morgan, though …”
“I just realized I really like it here,” Mike said.
“Of course you like it here. That's why the Merridells were asking millions for the place. Anybody would like it here.”
“I always liked it here; but now I like it because of you. You're part of the place. I can't imagine anything else.”
“We'll just have to save our money and give the Merridells about twenty million and then we can live here forever. Problem solved.”
“Lucky, we're never going to have twenty million.” Mike was being deadly serious.
“How do you know?”
“It's not a realistic expectation.”
“Come here.” Lucky held out his arms to Mike.
“Sex isn't the answer to everything. We have to think.”
“I think best when you're fucking me. Come here.” Lucky again held out his arms but Mike sat immobile. Lucky got up and walked over to him.
“We've got no place to go, Lucky. We've got two children who are going to need us. We've got two women we're not married to and we depend on them for lots. And they're flaky sometimes. We've got ...”
“Mike, everybody has problems. We don't need to solve them all tonight. We can attack them one at a time. Where should we live? We need to talk to the girls and see what their thoughts are. We don't all have to live together, but we'd want to be close by. So, step one, we talk to Debbie and Al, ok?”
“Ok,” Mike acquiesced. He liked it when Lucky took charge. Mike was organized and logical; but Lucky's imagination could see around corners. Mike let Lucky lead him to bed and get his clothes off. Then the roles reversed.
Mike had learned every hot button Lucky had and just how to press them. Tonight he decided to keep Lucky uncertain. He started and stopped, he shifted and twisted. He touched Lucky teasingly and then grabbed him and thrust into his ass in a needy desperation. They came quickly and lay back getting their breath.
“Sometimes, my excellent lover, sex is everything. For a while it's all we need.” Lucky held Mike against his body and began whispering. “Tomorrow, you should start designing a house for us. Something comfortable, not lavish. We can't afford lavish. But something for ourselves, with room for a young visitor or two … Debbie and Al like working in the country, so that's probably what we should think about, too. What do you say? We'll talk to them, of course, but what do you say?”
Mike responded physically in a resonant way that said I love you over and over.
Alfred screwed up his face. He felt an odd stinging in his cock and wondered if he should see a doctor. It wasn't dramatic. No discharge, no lesion, just a stinging. The kind of stinging that you sometimes get from too much sex. Alfred had never felt it before. He had also never had as much sex before. He and Ben had been fucking as non-stop as youthful male anatomy permits for just short of twenty-four hours. A weak sun was setting when Alfred lay back and said, “Phew. I'm fucked out.”
“No,” Ben contradicted. “I'm fucked out, you are untouched so far. That's about to change.” And with that he began touching Alfred, and then stroking him, and then fucking him. And he was good at it. Ben came first. Then Alfred came once more with Ben still inside him and the stinging was worse.
“We have to stop. I've worn it out, I think.” Alfred held up his limp dick and let it drop down again.
“You know what?” Ben asked, sniffing the air. “We stink. Maybe we should have a bath. And then we can try this again. I have an idea for you on top, where you bend your legs and put your feet as close to my hips as you ...”
“A bath sounds great,” Alfred interrupted and got out of bed. He opened his bedroom door and saw there was a light on in the bathroom already.
“Are you done … at last?” his mother called out. “I'll be out of here in a minute.”
“I thought you were in Lincoln with that guy ...”
“I was. I'm back. Who's in there with you? That American?”
“No. A new friend, Ben.”
His mother stepped out of the bathroom and waved as she went down the stairs. “Don't wait up for me.” She sounded amused.
In the bright light of the bathroom, Alfred admired Ben's body. It looked even better glistening with water and soap suds. “I can't leave you alone,” he told Ben as he ran a wash cloth over Ben's pecs.
“Um-hmm, good,” Ben answered. He slipped his finger into Alfred's ass. “That was the first time I've ever fucked a bloke.” He wiggled his finger. “I want to do it again.” They splashed quite a lot of water onto the floor, but no one was ever in danger of drowning and when it was over Ben seemed to be fully satisfied.
“There's a problem, Alfred.”
“What?”
“I'll tell you next time. It kind of needs nudity and the lights out before I can tell you. Right now, I should get back to school and be a student for a few days.”
Rory,
Another great installment.
What is happening to our missing Customs Agent?
Is he locked in, somewhere?
Fred is a real bitch. I'm waiting for the attempted deception.
As to the other activities, you never leave us wanting, lol.
Another great installment.
What is happening to our missing Customs Agent?
Is he locked in, somewhere?
Fred is a real bitch. I'm waiting for the attempted deception.
As to the other activities, you never leave us wanting, lol.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
For some selfish reasons, I've been making these chapters longer, about ten screens + or -. They used to be five or six.
Is ten too long?
Is ten too long?
It's a function of time - I like the story, I just have limited time on at night - the longer chapters make it a little more difficult to read/comment and also post elsewhere of a night.
Esp. since I try to keep track of what's happening to post something more explicit.
All of my favorite authors seem to be posting longer story updates when they post - which seem to be on similar schedules, lol.
Write and post as fits your needs.
Esp. since I try to keep track of what's happening to post something more explicit.
All of my favorite authors seem to be posting longer story updates when they post - which seem to be on similar schedules, lol.
Write and post as fits your needs.
EasyRory
JUB Addict
Chapter Fifty-Five
“I've decided,” Heiko said. “You know, once you make up your mind, everything becomes easy. Step one, step two … it all falls into place.”
“When will the wedding be?” Tom asked trying not to stare at Heiko, who was standing across the room in his underwear about to get into bed.
“What wedding? I've decided my first priority has to be to go back to Stanford in January and finish up. Zenzi … that's still an open question. The sex is better than I expected, I have to say. But you were right. No need to rush anything.” Heiko slipped off his underwear and got into bed.
“Should I turn the light out?” Tom asked.
“Yes. Big day tomorrow. Unless you want to read or something. The light won't bother me.” Heiko rolled onto his side and faced the wall of Alistair's upstairs bedroom. “Alistair and Edmund are funny together,” he commented before punching the pillow and settling down.
In the room below Alistair whispered to Edmund, “That German boy is stunning. I thought we'd be listening to the sounds of love by now.”
“Not everyone is as sex-driven as you,” Edmund answered.
“Well, I'm going to ask them about it in the morning,” Alistair decided.
“Do not ask them, Alistair. Leave it alone. Now roll over. I want to feel your arse up against me,” Edmund said with a yawn.
Heiko was the second one up in the morning. He looked out the kitchen window. The sky was so dark, it was hard to tell it was morning. “I guess surfing is out of the question,” he said to Edmund.
“In fact, there is some surfing not far from here. You'd need a wet suit, though. Do you surf in California?”
“I've tried it, but not often enough to get good. Tom got me in with some guys who play lacrosse. That's my main sport.” He answered Edmund's quizzical look, explaining, “It's an American game, sort of an aerial version of hockey.”
Edmund handed him a cup of tea. “Heiko, if Alistair asks you any rude questions, just ignore him.”
“Rude? Like what?”
“He always thinks people should be together. Like you and Tom. He might ask about that. Just ignore him.”
Heiko laughed and said, “Easy answer. Tom and I have been tempted, but never at the same time. I think we both regret missing out.. I know I do. Tom's amazing but not as … hmm … impetuous, I guess, as he used to be a couple years ago.”
“Aren't we all? You want porridge?” Edmund stirred the steaming pan and spooned up some for himself.
“Yes, thank you.”
Alistair bustled into the kitchen in his robe. “Tea? Is there some? Ahhh … yes.” He poured a cup and added nearly a half a cup of sugar to it. “Now then, Hendrik, what are your intentions toward Tom? We're very protective of him.”
“Ignore him, Heiko. I warned you.”
“I just don't want his heart broken … again,” Alistair said to Edmund.
“My heart's not broken,” Tom said, entering the kitchen.
“Ah, we're all up,” Edmund observed. “There's tea and scones and porridge ready, and I can make eggs if anyone wants.”
“Of course, they want. I'll make them,” Alistair offered and opened a cupboard of dishware and glasses. “Hmm. Where have the eggs got to?”
“In the fridge, where they always are.”
“Since when?” Alistair looked for them in another cupboard of spices and staples.
Tom and Heiko shared a smile over Alistair's befuddlement.
“I caught that look. You two share an affection and regard. Many great loves were founded on less. Like Edmund and me. For the first twenty-five years it was just sex, sex, sex. I didn't even know his last name until one day I looked at the electric bill.”
“He's exaggerating … a little. For quite a while he thought Howard was my first name.” Edmund rolled his eyes and then hugged Alistair. “And we haven't been together twenty-five years. It's only ...” Edmund looked at Alistair for the answer but got none. “... twenty-two years and one month.”
“Give or take ...” Alistair commented. “Ah-hah. Here are some Cadbury cream eggs.”
“You sure can sell beer,” Sepi said, when Phil ended his set.
Phil put his guitar in its case and went outside for some fresh air while Mariel and Andi closed the bar. He encountered Marcus. They waited for a train to rumble out of the station before they could talk.
“Have you decided on a gun yet?” Marcus asked.
“Not yet. Are you here alone?”
“No, Lothar is in the toilet.”
Phil wondered why Marcus was looking at him oddly. Marcus's eyes got wider and wider; and then he smiled. Arms closed around Phil and a familiar voice asked, “How you doin', big guy?”
“Alex!” Phil spun around and kissed his returned lover. A long kiss and then little ones as he got used to the idea that it really was Alex.“Where … ? What … ?”
“Wait. I'll be right back,” Alex said and went into the hotel.
Marcus sighed. “Just one time, I'd like to do that.”
“Do what?” Phil asked.
“Kiss Lothar the way you kissed Alex. All out – nothing held back.”
“What's stopping you?”
“You don't know Lothar. He would run up the mountain and never come down if I did ...” Alex and Lothar came out of the hotel together and ended Marcus's musing.
Phil felt it took forever to get rid of Marcus and Lothar. In fact it took about a minute. At last he could ask, “Where have you been so long? Why didn't you call?”
They walked to the basement and suddenly Phil stopped. He put his finger to his mouth in a 'shhhh' gesture. They heard a giggle and then a groan. Finally a door closed quietly. “Andi has a young friend named Mariel who in using room at the end of the hall. Or maybe using Andi's room right now,” Phil smiled at the sound of another giggle.
“Amateurs. Let the professionals get at it.” Alex held Phil and wouldn't let go. They flopped onto the bed and gradually worked their way out of their clothes. Eventually they lay naked and expectant in each others arms. Who was going to top? For two guys who liked to bottom, who would top was the only problem in their relationship;but it only arose occasionally. Usually they worked it out without discussion and did what seemed natural at the moment. This time they needed some discussion.
“All the way from Hungary I kept thinking of you, how much I wanted to fuck you,” Alex said. “But now that I'm here … and enjoying the feel of your cock … I swear it's bigger that it used to be … do you think you would mind … you know … “
“Know what?” Phil asked innocently.
“You know what I want. Are you gonna make me beg?”
“You know every night you've been gone I lay here in this bed thinking about you. Missing you. Dreaming I could feel your weight on me, pinning me down, your knees pushing my legs apart … I swear, Alex, my asshole would spasm at the thought.”
“Really? So if you want, I guess I can ...”
Phil laughed and began kissing Alex's body. When his cock entered Alex he kissed his mouth and began pumping slowly. Alex came suddenly and unexpectedly before Phil was even warmed up.
“So you did miss me.”
“Sorry. It just happened, Phil. The feeling just overcame me. I didn't ...”
“Shut up. You know we're not done.” Phil kissed Alex into silence and let him recover. To break the mood he asked, “What made you leave me on the street?”
“You want to see?” Alex asked. He got out of bed and crossed the room. He opened a drawer and pulled something wrapped in butcher's paper out of the dresser. He felt Phil's eyes on him as he returned to bed. “You checking me out?”
“Hmm, no tattoos, no bruises, just as hot looking as ever … You check out ok.”
Alex sat on the bed and slowly unwrapped the package. The brittle paper crinkled loudly in the quiet of the room. Whatever was being unveiled was dark looking and shiny in the light of the bedside lamp.. Alex held the object up. Phil caught his breath when he realized it was a large handgun.
“Is it loaded? Phil asked.
“No.” Alex turned the gun so Phil could see all sides of it. Its oily surface looked gray-blue-black in the light.
Phil reached out and took if in his hand. “It's big and heavy. Not like cops use.” Phil's voice was a low growl; his erection was showing signs of returning. He liked the feel and heft of the gun. “Magazine loading ...a big magazine ...” He sighted down the barrel. His cock rose to full mast.
“Here's the strange part ...” Alex took the gun back and lay across the bed holding it directly under the lamp. “Look,” he said to Phil.
Phil lay on top of Alex so his cock was in Alex's crack. He ignored the invitation to examine the gun and instead kissed Alex's neck. “I want to fuck you some more, ok?” He didn't wait for permission and gave Alex a slow fuck, changing positions now and then, kissing sometimes, making it romantic, sometimes it was just raw fucking. He jacked off Alex to the point of orgasm and then stopped, keeping his cock moving slowly as Alex came back from the edge of orgasm. Then he resumed and stopped again. He repeated this a couple more times until Alex frantic for release.
“Fuck me! Make me come, Phil, Fuck me hard now!” Alex demanded.
Phil pumped until his spasms just began and then immediately stroked Alex to explosion. They were a long time getting their breath back.
Alex was awed. “You've never fucked me like that before.”
“Evolution,” was Phil's one word answer; but it didn't seem enough. “I think I'm evolving into a top who might even like it a little rough. That gun kinda turned me on.” Phil looked for Alex's reaction. “Weird, huh?”
“Man, I sure liked it. You can do that again anytime.”
“Yeah, I will. What did you want to show me about the gun?”
“Here … look.” Alex again sprawled across the bed. His ass looked just as inviting, but Phil concentrated on the gun. “See? The writing on the barrel?”
“Voere … but they make only rifles.”
“I think it's where the faulty barrels are going. I bet Voere has never seen anything like this - officially. When that truck I was in finally stopped, the driver went into some building. I heard them speaking Hungarian. I went to have a look and found this gun in the outer room. It told me what I needed to know. I was afraid to call Dimitri. The call could have been traced, I think. History lesson: the Hungarians have been pissed off for hundreds of years. Don't piss them off more. So I brought it here. I was in Gyor and the factory name was ...”
“Can this wait 'til tomorrow?” Phil yawned. “I got my beautiful boyfriend back. We just had some sweet sex. All is well and I could use some sleep.”
“I wanted to give you the basic facts in case anything happens before I get to talk to Dimitri … so you could tell him.”
“Fake Voere … factory in Gyor ...” Phil dozed off.
Alex made one brief call to Florian Obstbauer. Then he crawled into the warmth of feathers and Phil. A kiss and an 'I love you' got only a grunt in response from Phil. Sleep felt good.
“Oh, come on. It'll be a laugh. You can return to your alma mater and do a good deed helping me hang art. My professor asked for a couple of volunteers ...” Ben tried to talk Alfred into a morning back at good old East Anglia.
“Who is this professor exactly?”
“His name is Howard. E. Howard. I don't know what the E stands for.”
“Edmund Howard. I know him. This is going to cost you.”
“What?” Ben asked.
“One of your best blow jobs.”
“Shite, Alfie … you know oral is my least favorite thing to do.”
“But you're so good at it. Those soft, full lips, your sexy hands on my balls, your hair tickling my stomach, plus if I sit up I can watch you squirming, it makes your ass look really hot ...”
“You don't want to fuck me? It's a whole lot less effort and it's faster.”
“Less effort for you, you mean. Come on … we did what you wanted last night … and I'll go to the library with you … AAAAAHHHH … yes, that's right. Suck it a little harder, ok?”
Ben had not gotten used to swallowing yet. He gagged when Alfred filled his mouth with warm cum. “The things I do for love,” he muttered. He held his semi-hard cock as he walked to the bathroom to keep it from flopping around. “I'm fuckin' you when we get back,” he warned Alfred and then gagged at the taste of cum lingering in his mouth.
Love? mused Alfred. It can't be love. He hasn't known me two weeks. He means sex, I think. Doesn't he? I should get rid of him. He's too young and he's a student. Students lead such boring lives. He is a good fuck, though. Top or bottom. Sweet kisser. Kind of an adult sense of humor for somebody that young. He's a very good fuck. Knows just what to do. And thank God his cock isn't a monster. Or a midget, either. It's just right. Alfred absentmindedly stroked his cock. He felt signs of a revival.
“Ben?” he called. “We don't have to wait til we get back … There's time now.”
Ben returned to the room and smiled at Alfred's erection. “There isn't time. I need this professor to like me.”
“Do you really love me?”
Ben frowned. “I did say that, didn't I? Well, sort of, I do. But not like, well, not like LOVE love.”
Alfred was surprised by how much he liked that answer. As they walked toward town, Ben kept talking.
“I was keeping a count. Alfie has fucked me four, five, six times. I have fucked him twice, now three times. That kind of thing, but I quit. I lost count the second time I was here and then I realized cocks don't wear out from use, not for long, that is, and yours hardly wears out at all. So fucking is an option that's always there. I like that knowing we can fuck any time we want. I never had a boy friend before. Not a girl friend either, at least not one I liked as much as you. Maybe if there's a break, we can find someplace quiet at school. My room, maybe.”
Alfred told himself stop now, big mistake, he's a first year student, he's eighteen, for God's sake, fall down, break a leg, GO HOME NOW! But he kept walking, listening to Ben, liking it when Ben would call him Alfie, and not thinking much at all about seeing Edmund.
“So what do you think about all that?” Ben asked.
“I hope your roommate's gone for the weekend. That's what I think.”
“Really? You're liking this as much as me?” Ben looked innocent, sexy, and hopeful all at the same time. It would be so easy to hurt him.
“I've decided,” Heiko said. “You know, once you make up your mind, everything becomes easy. Step one, step two … it all falls into place.”
“When will the wedding be?” Tom asked trying not to stare at Heiko, who was standing across the room in his underwear about to get into bed.
“What wedding? I've decided my first priority has to be to go back to Stanford in January and finish up. Zenzi … that's still an open question. The sex is better than I expected, I have to say. But you were right. No need to rush anything.” Heiko slipped off his underwear and got into bed.
“Should I turn the light out?” Tom asked.
“Yes. Big day tomorrow. Unless you want to read or something. The light won't bother me.” Heiko rolled onto his side and faced the wall of Alistair's upstairs bedroom. “Alistair and Edmund are funny together,” he commented before punching the pillow and settling down.
In the room below Alistair whispered to Edmund, “That German boy is stunning. I thought we'd be listening to the sounds of love by now.”
“Not everyone is as sex-driven as you,” Edmund answered.
“Well, I'm going to ask them about it in the morning,” Alistair decided.
“Do not ask them, Alistair. Leave it alone. Now roll over. I want to feel your arse up against me,” Edmund said with a yawn.
Heiko was the second one up in the morning. He looked out the kitchen window. The sky was so dark, it was hard to tell it was morning. “I guess surfing is out of the question,” he said to Edmund.
“In fact, there is some surfing not far from here. You'd need a wet suit, though. Do you surf in California?”
“I've tried it, but not often enough to get good. Tom got me in with some guys who play lacrosse. That's my main sport.” He answered Edmund's quizzical look, explaining, “It's an American game, sort of an aerial version of hockey.”
Edmund handed him a cup of tea. “Heiko, if Alistair asks you any rude questions, just ignore him.”
“Rude? Like what?”
“He always thinks people should be together. Like you and Tom. He might ask about that. Just ignore him.”
Heiko laughed and said, “Easy answer. Tom and I have been tempted, but never at the same time. I think we both regret missing out.. I know I do. Tom's amazing but not as … hmm … impetuous, I guess, as he used to be a couple years ago.”
“Aren't we all? You want porridge?” Edmund stirred the steaming pan and spooned up some for himself.
“Yes, thank you.”
Alistair bustled into the kitchen in his robe. “Tea? Is there some? Ahhh … yes.” He poured a cup and added nearly a half a cup of sugar to it. “Now then, Hendrik, what are your intentions toward Tom? We're very protective of him.”
“Ignore him, Heiko. I warned you.”
“I just don't want his heart broken … again,” Alistair said to Edmund.
“My heart's not broken,” Tom said, entering the kitchen.
“Ah, we're all up,” Edmund observed. “There's tea and scones and porridge ready, and I can make eggs if anyone wants.”
“Of course, they want. I'll make them,” Alistair offered and opened a cupboard of dishware and glasses. “Hmm. Where have the eggs got to?”
“In the fridge, where they always are.”
“Since when?” Alistair looked for them in another cupboard of spices and staples.
Tom and Heiko shared a smile over Alistair's befuddlement.
“I caught that look. You two share an affection and regard. Many great loves were founded on less. Like Edmund and me. For the first twenty-five years it was just sex, sex, sex. I didn't even know his last name until one day I looked at the electric bill.”
“He's exaggerating … a little. For quite a while he thought Howard was my first name.” Edmund rolled his eyes and then hugged Alistair. “And we haven't been together twenty-five years. It's only ...” Edmund looked at Alistair for the answer but got none. “... twenty-two years and one month.”
“Give or take ...” Alistair commented. “Ah-hah. Here are some Cadbury cream eggs.”
“You sure can sell beer,” Sepi said, when Phil ended his set.
Phil put his guitar in its case and went outside for some fresh air while Mariel and Andi closed the bar. He encountered Marcus. They waited for a train to rumble out of the station before they could talk.
“Have you decided on a gun yet?” Marcus asked.
“Not yet. Are you here alone?”
“No, Lothar is in the toilet.”
Phil wondered why Marcus was looking at him oddly. Marcus's eyes got wider and wider; and then he smiled. Arms closed around Phil and a familiar voice asked, “How you doin', big guy?”
“Alex!” Phil spun around and kissed his returned lover. A long kiss and then little ones as he got used to the idea that it really was Alex.“Where … ? What … ?”
“Wait. I'll be right back,” Alex said and went into the hotel.
Marcus sighed. “Just one time, I'd like to do that.”
“Do what?” Phil asked.
“Kiss Lothar the way you kissed Alex. All out – nothing held back.”
“What's stopping you?”
“You don't know Lothar. He would run up the mountain and never come down if I did ...” Alex and Lothar came out of the hotel together and ended Marcus's musing.
Phil felt it took forever to get rid of Marcus and Lothar. In fact it took about a minute. At last he could ask, “Where have you been so long? Why didn't you call?”
They walked to the basement and suddenly Phil stopped. He put his finger to his mouth in a 'shhhh' gesture. They heard a giggle and then a groan. Finally a door closed quietly. “Andi has a young friend named Mariel who in using room at the end of the hall. Or maybe using Andi's room right now,” Phil smiled at the sound of another giggle.
“Amateurs. Let the professionals get at it.” Alex held Phil and wouldn't let go. They flopped onto the bed and gradually worked their way out of their clothes. Eventually they lay naked and expectant in each others arms. Who was going to top? For two guys who liked to bottom, who would top was the only problem in their relationship;but it only arose occasionally. Usually they worked it out without discussion and did what seemed natural at the moment. This time they needed some discussion.
“All the way from Hungary I kept thinking of you, how much I wanted to fuck you,” Alex said. “But now that I'm here … and enjoying the feel of your cock … I swear it's bigger that it used to be … do you think you would mind … you know … “
“Know what?” Phil asked innocently.
“You know what I want. Are you gonna make me beg?”
“You know every night you've been gone I lay here in this bed thinking about you. Missing you. Dreaming I could feel your weight on me, pinning me down, your knees pushing my legs apart … I swear, Alex, my asshole would spasm at the thought.”
“Really? So if you want, I guess I can ...”
Phil laughed and began kissing Alex's body. When his cock entered Alex he kissed his mouth and began pumping slowly. Alex came suddenly and unexpectedly before Phil was even warmed up.
“So you did miss me.”
“Sorry. It just happened, Phil. The feeling just overcame me. I didn't ...”
“Shut up. You know we're not done.” Phil kissed Alex into silence and let him recover. To break the mood he asked, “What made you leave me on the street?”
“You want to see?” Alex asked. He got out of bed and crossed the room. He opened a drawer and pulled something wrapped in butcher's paper out of the dresser. He felt Phil's eyes on him as he returned to bed. “You checking me out?”
“Hmm, no tattoos, no bruises, just as hot looking as ever … You check out ok.”
Alex sat on the bed and slowly unwrapped the package. The brittle paper crinkled loudly in the quiet of the room. Whatever was being unveiled was dark looking and shiny in the light of the bedside lamp.. Alex held the object up. Phil caught his breath when he realized it was a large handgun.
“Is it loaded? Phil asked.
“No.” Alex turned the gun so Phil could see all sides of it. Its oily surface looked gray-blue-black in the light.
Phil reached out and took if in his hand. “It's big and heavy. Not like cops use.” Phil's voice was a low growl; his erection was showing signs of returning. He liked the feel and heft of the gun. “Magazine loading ...a big magazine ...” He sighted down the barrel. His cock rose to full mast.
“Here's the strange part ...” Alex took the gun back and lay across the bed holding it directly under the lamp. “Look,” he said to Phil.
Phil lay on top of Alex so his cock was in Alex's crack. He ignored the invitation to examine the gun and instead kissed Alex's neck. “I want to fuck you some more, ok?” He didn't wait for permission and gave Alex a slow fuck, changing positions now and then, kissing sometimes, making it romantic, sometimes it was just raw fucking. He jacked off Alex to the point of orgasm and then stopped, keeping his cock moving slowly as Alex came back from the edge of orgasm. Then he resumed and stopped again. He repeated this a couple more times until Alex frantic for release.
“Fuck me! Make me come, Phil, Fuck me hard now!” Alex demanded.
Phil pumped until his spasms just began and then immediately stroked Alex to explosion. They were a long time getting their breath back.
Alex was awed. “You've never fucked me like that before.”
“Evolution,” was Phil's one word answer; but it didn't seem enough. “I think I'm evolving into a top who might even like it a little rough. That gun kinda turned me on.” Phil looked for Alex's reaction. “Weird, huh?”
“Man, I sure liked it. You can do that again anytime.”
“Yeah, I will. What did you want to show me about the gun?”
“Here … look.” Alex again sprawled across the bed. His ass looked just as inviting, but Phil concentrated on the gun. “See? The writing on the barrel?”
“Voere … but they make only rifles.”
“I think it's where the faulty barrels are going. I bet Voere has never seen anything like this - officially. When that truck I was in finally stopped, the driver went into some building. I heard them speaking Hungarian. I went to have a look and found this gun in the outer room. It told me what I needed to know. I was afraid to call Dimitri. The call could have been traced, I think. History lesson: the Hungarians have been pissed off for hundreds of years. Don't piss them off more. So I brought it here. I was in Gyor and the factory name was ...”
“Can this wait 'til tomorrow?” Phil yawned. “I got my beautiful boyfriend back. We just had some sweet sex. All is well and I could use some sleep.”
“I wanted to give you the basic facts in case anything happens before I get to talk to Dimitri … so you could tell him.”
“Fake Voere … factory in Gyor ...” Phil dozed off.
Alex made one brief call to Florian Obstbauer. Then he crawled into the warmth of feathers and Phil. A kiss and an 'I love you' got only a grunt in response from Phil. Sleep felt good.
“Oh, come on. It'll be a laugh. You can return to your alma mater and do a good deed helping me hang art. My professor asked for a couple of volunteers ...” Ben tried to talk Alfred into a morning back at good old East Anglia.
“Who is this professor exactly?”
“His name is Howard. E. Howard. I don't know what the E stands for.”
“Edmund Howard. I know him. This is going to cost you.”
“What?” Ben asked.
“One of your best blow jobs.”
“Shite, Alfie … you know oral is my least favorite thing to do.”
“But you're so good at it. Those soft, full lips, your sexy hands on my balls, your hair tickling my stomach, plus if I sit up I can watch you squirming, it makes your ass look really hot ...”
“You don't want to fuck me? It's a whole lot less effort and it's faster.”
“Less effort for you, you mean. Come on … we did what you wanted last night … and I'll go to the library with you … AAAAAHHHH … yes, that's right. Suck it a little harder, ok?”
Ben had not gotten used to swallowing yet. He gagged when Alfred filled his mouth with warm cum. “The things I do for love,” he muttered. He held his semi-hard cock as he walked to the bathroom to keep it from flopping around. “I'm fuckin' you when we get back,” he warned Alfred and then gagged at the taste of cum lingering in his mouth.
Love? mused Alfred. It can't be love. He hasn't known me two weeks. He means sex, I think. Doesn't he? I should get rid of him. He's too young and he's a student. Students lead such boring lives. He is a good fuck, though. Top or bottom. Sweet kisser. Kind of an adult sense of humor for somebody that young. He's a very good fuck. Knows just what to do. And thank God his cock isn't a monster. Or a midget, either. It's just right. Alfred absentmindedly stroked his cock. He felt signs of a revival.
“Ben?” he called. “We don't have to wait til we get back … There's time now.”
Ben returned to the room and smiled at Alfred's erection. “There isn't time. I need this professor to like me.”
“Do you really love me?”
Ben frowned. “I did say that, didn't I? Well, sort of, I do. But not like, well, not like LOVE love.”
Alfred was surprised by how much he liked that answer. As they walked toward town, Ben kept talking.
“I was keeping a count. Alfie has fucked me four, five, six times. I have fucked him twice, now three times. That kind of thing, but I quit. I lost count the second time I was here and then I realized cocks don't wear out from use, not for long, that is, and yours hardly wears out at all. So fucking is an option that's always there. I like that knowing we can fuck any time we want. I never had a boy friend before. Not a girl friend either, at least not one I liked as much as you. Maybe if there's a break, we can find someplace quiet at school. My room, maybe.”
Alfred told himself stop now, big mistake, he's a first year student, he's eighteen, for God's sake, fall down, break a leg, GO HOME NOW! But he kept walking, listening to Ben, liking it when Ben would call him Alfie, and not thinking much at all about seeing Edmund.
“So what do you think about all that?” Ben asked.
“I hope your roommate's gone for the weekend. That's what I think.”
“Really? You're liking this as much as me?” Ben looked innocent, sexy, and hopeful all at the same time. It would be so easy to hurt him.
Rory,
A nice installment - Phil and Alex back together - with fake pistols and hot sex.
Tom and Heiko - WHEN will they finally get together and make beautiful music?
And our horn dog of the British Aisles, Alfie, with his Freshman/1st year 18YO stud muffin.
A very nice trip around the world, or at least Europe and the UK.
Next time, we might find out what's happening back at the Garage - new digs in the offing - out in the country - for two couples and "their" kids? . . .
A nice installment - Phil and Alex back together - with fake pistols and hot sex.
Tom and Heiko - WHEN will they finally get together and make beautiful music?
And our horn dog of the British Aisles, Alfie, with his Freshman/1st year 18YO stud muffin.
A very nice trip around the world, or at least Europe and the UK.
Next time, we might find out what's happening back at the Garage - new digs in the offing - out in the country - for two couples and "their" kids? . . .
EasyRory
JUB Addict
I deliberately shortened the chapter and the minute I posted it felt dissatisfied my choice. Sigh ...
Meanwhile, I was visiting a friend in the hospital and sat through her roommate listening an episode of The Young and the Restless. I've decided my story needs characters who are much more duplicitous. Trouble is I like these characters, so maybe the bitches will have to wait for Chapter One of The Young and the Itchy.
Like that title?
