Ready and Action
With a final che cazzo shouted from the window, Alejandro brought the Volvo to a screeching halt outside Milano Centrale. He had driven at a chaotic speed, accompanied by hand gestures and shouting at other cars, and thus managed to take the five men from Bellinzona to Milan before the train with the thief was to arrive.
As this was south of the Alps, and driving there is known to make some men from north of the Alps break down in tears, unable to figure out what system of rules governed the traffic, they had given the wheels to Alejandro, the Spanish man in the group. Karl, Hermann and Martin exited the car slightly nauseous. Hugo, as a Frenchman and therefore a junior member of the Mediterranean club, had devised an action plan during the drive for how to catch the thief of their underwear and notebook.
“We don’t have much hard data to go on. So we go on inference, feeling and providence. Hermann and Alejandro will stand by the gates to the tracks. You know the thief the best, Alejandro, and Hermann can wrestle him to the ground. Karl and I will stand by the western exit, by the tram and bus stops. That is where he is likely to try to disappear into the crowds. Martin, you take a position in the main hall of the station. You have marathon stamina and an eye for detail, so if the thief sneaks past us, you hunt him down.”
“Let’s save the world, men. Action stations!” said Hugo as the sun flared in the windows, and the stern men ran to their assigned positions within the train station north of the city centre, their penises still dancing and bobbing free within their shorts.
It was hot. The air was full of the fumes from the cheap pizza ovens. Civilians moved back and forth, unaware of the high stakes. Tough and hardened men surveyed the place, looking for the signal to launch into action. Even Sergio Leone could not have set it up any better.
As in several train stations throughout Europe, the tracks were separated from the main hall of the station by electronic gates. Hermann and Alejandro stood near the gates, doing their best to identify the man in the row of people exiting the train and walking towards the gates. As it was summertime in Italy, the place was crowded with people and suitcases.
“He’s close,” whispered Hermann to Alejandro, since Hermann could feel the aura of the underwear grow stronger.
Which one of these types looks like the kind of guy who would fondle anonymously a pair of nice buttocks in a crowded space, thought Hermann. Alejandro elbowed Hermann in the side. He had an idea, and he understood what was needed. He walked closer to the gates and then bent over. To the ordinary observer, it was a young, sort of handsome man in shorts bending down to tie his shoelaces. To the thief, however, the same display would be of a hot, sexy package of boy fun and booty, barely wrapped in a thin fabric, the kind of fabric a quick tug would pull down to reveal a most fuckable cute piece of smooth, perfectly tanned and edible boy ass. In short, irresistible.
That’s when Hermann saw him. The way he eyed Alejandro’s ass, how he stopped reflexively, inhaled deeply, licked his lips and began to move his hand to brush pass the ass on display. He carried a bag of the right size and apparent weight, and there was something just generic about the guy. No doubt, this was their target.
Hermann was strong and fearsome, and also a man of a good heart. This time, the latter got in the way of the former. In his desire to protect Alejandro’s ass from yet another encounter with this thief, Hermann approached too soon, too fast. He had alerted the thief.
A brusque push of a tourist group, and the thief was on his way. Hermann shouted, and he and Alejandro pursued the man. It was not easy in the crowded train station. Hermann reached out and grabbed the thief’s jacket, which ripped, but it did not stop the man. Instead, the thief caught hold of two plus-sized suitcases from a Korean couple and rolled them right at Hermann, who was knocked over by the considerable momentum.
“Thief,” shouted Alejandro. Since theft was not uncommon in the Milan train station, his word did not engender much action. It was, however, loud enough for Karl and Hugo to hear it.
They surveyed the commotion and, after a few seconds, they managed to discern the movement caused by aggressive baby strollers from the movement caused by the thief pushing his way towards the western exit.
Karl and Hugo nodded at each other and steadied themselves by grabbing their groins. Whatever karate and muay thai they had learnt from watching sweaty action movies (sure, strip off those shirts because close fighting with another man makes you so hot and steamy), this was the time to apply it.
Right as Karl lunged forward at the thief, a dehydrated Scandinavian man, desperate to reach the exit and escape the crowds and stale heat, came between Karl and his target. The collision led to a minor domino of falling persons, including the thief, who fell into Hugo, who in turn fell face down on the floor.
In the confused, sweaty pile of humans, the thief could not restrain himself from reaching into Hugo’s shorts for a quick rummage between the naked and exquisite buttocks. The sensation of reaching inside shorts or up under a toga to discover nothing but a fresh and firm muscle butt was the delicate substance of sappy romantic poetry. After a few seconds of grasping at the raw materials of poetic creation, the thief remembered however that he had to prioritize escape over probing a pretty French butthole. So he stood up and continued running.
Karl helped Hugo up just as Alejandro and Hermann managed to come through.
“There,” shouted Alejandro and pointed to a man with a bag who just missed getting on a tram.
The four men ran after the thief. However, the thief ran to a group of seven young Italian men standing by their parked Vespa scooters. Without regard for the delicate fashion and handsome hairdo of the youthful Italian men, the thief pushed one of the young men off his scooter.
At this point, Martin caught up with the other men, but alas, too late, because the scooter with its precious payload of jockstraps and notebook drove off into the traffic.
Hermann was exhausted. He sat down on the ground to catch his breath. As men ought to know, if they wear shorts but no underwear, a certain slippage may take place. But tired from the pursuit, Hermann neglected this fact, and thus he exposed his thick dick to the seven young Italian men with their, presently, six scooters.
“You are after him. That thief?” asked one of the Italians, who was upset and gesticulating wildly.
“Yes! He stole from us. Our bag. Our notebook,” answered Martin.
“Come. Get on. Get on me. We all go after,” said another man with urgency, and grabbed hold of Hermann’s arm, pulled up the big German with his dick out, and the Italian pointed to the rear seat of his bright yellow Vespa scooter.
Thanks to the quick intervention, six scooters with twelve men on, drove out in the Milan traffic in the direction the thief had gone. The young man whose Vespa had been stolen sat on the back of his friend’s scooter, his linen trousers torn from hip to knee from the fall. Karl, Hermann, Alejandro, Hugo and Martin were on the rear seats of the other Vespas driven with purpose and experience by the young Italian men.
It was action time! Time to reset the Vespa in the cultural meme space. Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck, step aside. What better way than a high-testosterone, high-speed-ish pursuit through the tourist landmarks of a great European city?
They first caught up with the thief in the narrow streets around Pinacoteca di Brera, a palace with a long history of art and astronomy. Consider how the bodies of the possessed are miraculously healed by the grounded saint in the painting by Tintoretto, where light and shade play to distort and unsettle the strict, straight-line background. But the thief got away. He managed to get on the wide brick-paved parade street, Foro Buonaparte, which curved around the vast Medieval fortress, Castello Sforzesco, which none other than Leonardo Da Vinci had helped decorate more than five hundred years ago.
Since the thief was alone on his Vespa, he accelerated quickly on the wide streets and again put distance between himself and his numerous pursuers. Would he escape?
Under the bronze gaze of Giuseppe Garibaldi, the commander and unifier of Italy, the young men in hot pursuit gained ground, however. At his statue, trams and pedestrians blocked the way, which forced the thief to swerve southeast and back into the narrow streets of the very oldest part of Milan.
In a cloud of exhaust and burnt rubber, the six double-packed scooters came closer. The sun flared in the colourful shiny metal of the scooters, and the wind ruffled the hair of the determined young men in hot pursuit.
“We go around him. Pincer movement,” shouted the man who drove the Vespa on which Martin sat. In these streets, the young men knew the secret shortcuts. Hermann and Karl, with their respective Italian boys straddling the Vespas, continued after the thief, while the other four scooters scattered into side streets.
No high-speed chase through Milan would be complete without a quick view of the bright facade of the great cathedral. Thus, promptly, first the thief, then the two scooters in immediate pursuit, jumped up on Piazza del Duomo before doubling back and going north. They drove rather slow and were forced to zig-zag due to the large combined number of people who did high-end shopping in nearby malls, and those who were here to watch the bizarre and detailed statue of Saint Bartholomew Flayed in the cathedral, or to do a roof-walk on the cathedral to marvel at its strange blend of architectural styles, less a choice of any one designer, more a consequence of the tides of aesthetic innovation.
People in the square and on the streets were at this point aware of the pursuit and shouted a variety of angry words. Some angry guy almost tipped over the scooter on which Hermann sat. But with his thick dick still peeking out from the shorts, the sight of Hermann deterred the guy, at a primordial level, from going through with his push.
At Piazza della Scala by the famous opera house, Martin suddenly appeared. He and his Italian chaperone had parked on the square in anticipation that the action would reach there. He ran up in parallel with the thief on the scooter and grabbed the steering bar and, like a gymnast, vaulted over both scooter and driver. The force on the steering bar made the scooter fall over. The thief fell to the ground, and during the fall, he dropped the bag. Martin landed roughly; his shirt was ripped and torn. However, Martin claimed the bag and pulled it close.
So when Karl and Hermann came to a halt, Martin stood there like a hunter of old, naked upper body, bruised and bloodied, however, with a proud smile, as underwear, notebook, and Vespa had all been reclaimed. The young Italian man, who had driven Martin, joyfully hugged the athletic man. This is the stuff a block of marble and a chisel are meant to capture.
As the pursuit had attracted a great deal of attention by this point, the police arrived quickly. One contingent grabbed hold of the thief half a block away, where he had halted after his fall. Another handful of Italian constables in their snug-fitting uniforms surrounded the men.
It only took a few minutes to settle the matter. As the other Vespas arrived, the Italian men passionately explained to the police what had happened and why this high-speed pursuit was not only justified, but exactly what a good and big-balled Italian man had to do for the sake of honour when attacked by such a stronzo. The men in uniform nodded approvingly.
The twelve hearts and bodies of the happy men pulsated strongly.
Elated and free, the five men on the adventure and their seven Italian saviours decided a very extended and loud Italian meal was in order. As men, not as robots, it is ethically required to celebrate after overcoming a challenge together. At a nearby restaurant, the sweaty and wounded, but exceedingly happy group of men, sat, ate, drank and talked for hours.
They discussed the Vespas, all seven of which were incredibly well-maintained. They were not simply means of functional transportation, but statements of aesthetics and fun crafted in steel. They turned to the topic of the right time of day to have dinner, which led to some loud, passionate shouting. But as the red wine and manly hormones worked their way through the bloodstreams, the men calmed down, and by the time the sun had set, there were only smiles around the large table.
Hugo leaned forward to take a closer look at the torn linen trousers of the Italian man, who had been pushed to the ground. The tear had only grown, exposing a beautiful tan thigh and a generous chunk of a perky butt cheek. Hugo touched it with great care, in part, to ensure there was no painful bruising. Martin’s wounded chest received another diligent wash with water and a napkin by the man who had driven him so expertly. Karl, who was not used to this much red wine, was very drunk and showered the Italian men with compliments, more than half of which pertained to the sexual attributes of the Italian male body. Alejandro found himself squeezed between the hairy legs of two of the Italians, who with great care taught him new Italian phrases to be used at moments of excitement of one kind or the other.
The young Italian man who had driven Hermann during the chase suddenly leaned forward and grabbed a firm hold of Hermann’s penis, which again had slipped out of the shorts’ loose hold. They looked deep into each other’s eyes, as is the best practice for slow-stroke dick-massage.
“Do none of you wear underwear? You guys like to walk around in the city feeling all confident and naughty, always ready to ravage some exotic locals,” he asked as he discreetly did the once-every-other-second-stroke massage of Hermann’s rapidly growing dick. The other men at the table took note.
“Find us a nice place and we’ll show you. But if we show ours, then you show yours, that rule unites us across space and time, just look at the prehistoric cave paintings, what do those dudes with massive boners truly convey in their apo-lingustic way, you think,” slurred Karl from his dulled state in which he tapped into a space of timeless intuitions.
The Italian guys exchanged a few glances. One of them then nodded and glanced in the direction of La Scala. Hugo raised an inquisitive eyebrow. The guys nodded affirmatively and smiled in that cock-raised and cock-raising manner.
Within an hour, the twelve men were naked on the grand La Scala stage, the dome and fabulous chandelier vibrating with the lustful sounds of a hot male orgy. It turned out that two of the Italian men worked at the famous opera house with its horseshoe neoclassical design, and knew how to sneak in at nighttime after the usual audience and artists had left.
The sounds, the rhythm, and the passionate climax to the drama in the previous acts could not have been better conducted into a unified whole than had the great Toscanini himself been on the podium, stick in hand. If a twelve-man orgy is to be had indoors, rather than in the wild outdoors surrounded by beasts and eons of natural designs, then the La Scala stage was one of the better choices. Opulence and grandeur go very well with orgies.
An energetic orgy with twelve men of excellent calibre is not something one describes in every detail. The arrangement of every dick, butt, testicle, mouth, fingertip, toe, armpit, vein, nipple or belly button is not only a dreary exercise for an author, it is also not what the appeal of energetic twelve-man orgies is about. The atom-by-atom account, the oddly popular scientism, is thoroughly swept away if it attempts to make sense of the steamy, squirting, shaking, spasmodic heap of men that was on the stage. It was fucking at a higher level, beyond the raw aggregate of hard, throbbing peak male anatomy.
Let us say that Hermann has two boys synchronously slurping with adoration and suction in equal measure on his dick, while he is munching of a perky Italian ass. The sum-total of that far exceeds the already sizeable amount of glory contained in two slurping mouths, plus-sized dick and a tasty, bouncy buttocks buffet. A buttocks buffet is the best possible buffet. Its raw quality is beyond arithmetic to describe or quantify. Hermann’s muffled growls between the perky pair of buttocks say more.
Or let us say that Alejandro, Karl, Hugo and three Italian boys are trying to fit together a six-man fucktrain. In addition to a metre or so of hard dick and pliable ass poking their way through male anatomy to manly joy, an observer, or better yet a participant, is also sensing the eagerness of handsome men absorbed by and absorbing other handsome men. That is, the fleshy rhythm is important, so too the creativeness of all that dick motion, neck biting, butt slapping, and breathing.
And even in the case where Martin and his chaperone and chest-massager are slightly off to the side, engaged in the penetrative act of core-exhausting love-making between two men, they do so in a soundscape of male sexual force and satisfaction. That sound itself stirs men in their movements, awakening a knowing rarely felt outside the primordial savannah. The joy and gratitude Martin felt might in terms of bodies and muscles manifest roughly and beastly, yet in its full poetic context, it is an artful and loving engagement, man to man.
It is higher-level fucking, not mainly a question of atoms and Newtonian forces. This is glory embedded somewhere in the universe, perhaps best outlined in art.
Men who have overcome adversity together draw further force from a mystical, primordial well. Time and space are no barriers. The shared shaky rides through Milan streets were with them. The drama of Italian operas rose like steam from the stage and up through the meaty heap. The stage had its part to play. The grunts, the moans, the percussive sound of hard men slapping against each other were sweet music to La Scala.
It should come as no surprise that the men persevered for nearly two hours before the final rumbling crescendo echoed in the opera house. They wanted it to go on, but sexual exhaustion is something even men in their twenties can experience. They were so tired and happy that even the thought of some light earlobe twiddling was too much to contemplate.
Sunrise was therefore not far off when the five adventurers from the Sorbonne staggered into their Italian compatriots’ apartment for a very long, and well-deserved, sleep. In every bed, sofa, armchair or blanket on the floor, naked men hugged, snored, spooned and dreamed of mighty battles, heroic conquests and volcanic eruptions.
They were not the only ones, though, to dream wild and sensual things on account of what had taken place on the La Scala stage that night. Up at the loggione, a lone janitor had been fixed, with his eyes feasting on movement on the stage. Exactly what he thought or was up to was unclear, as he had stayed in the dark, within a cocoon of anonymity. That he drew pleasure from the abundant manly passions was, however, without a doubt. He was not going to report the events. No singer would know what enormous passions the stage had felt. Far more likely, the janitor would hope to see such events again, perhaps even try to induce them. It had been so beautiful.
