Roman Pleasures

It was wondering about when and why attitudes had changed—and the quest for a solution—that had brought me to the land of the Roman emperors. There was a time when relations between older and younger men—far younger than I was interested in—were considered the norm. In Greek and Roman times. Now, in today’s world, it appeared that it wasn’t men having relationships with men that was condemned as much as the age span involved. The homophobia came centuries later. I had had eighteen-year-old male lovers both in New York and London—I was thirty-nine, knocking on middle age—and I was derived for taking lovers less than half my age to the point that I was seeking somewhere else to live again. I was a professional writer; I could live most anywhere and continue my work. Perhaps in Italy, the land of the Roman emperors . . .

I had been at the doors of the Naples National Archeological Museum when they opened that Saturday morning just to be able to go stand in front of the sculpture they have there of Antinous, the young lover of the Roman emperor Hadrian, for some minutes—to see a youth loved by an Emperor so much that he made him a god. Just the thought of being in the area where the youth who was anointed by many as the god of homosexuality and the love of a man for a youth met his emperor lover aroused me to a state of ultrasensuality.

The way Antinous had been rendered in sculpture helped me see why Hadrian worshipped him. Hadrian himself had been loved and bedded by the Emperor Trajan when he was a youth. There was a time in the Greek and Roman world when this was considered normal and was not remarked—certainly was not condemned and persecuted. In truth, the emperor Claudius had been mocked in his time for not having a young male lover. Males of the upper classes were mentored and bedded by older, important men before they became men themselves. Although Antinous, as depicted, was a handsome young man, there were no answers in his marble visage for my quandary. What was wrong in an older man loving and making love to him?

From the museum I had taken a boat out to the Isle of Capri in the Bay of Naples and gone to the villa of the emperor Tiberius, the Villa Jovis, and sat in the ruins and considered his more lurid relationships with youths. He had taken it to extremes, but he had made it the fashion—or at least tolerated—in his time. I wasn’t interested in the extremes Tiberius went to. I just wanted to make love to a small, supple, narrow-hipped, willing eighteen-year-old youth. I wanted to hold him close in my embrace, smaller and more delicate than I was, and watch the expression on his face as a big-cocked older man entered him and the two became one. I wanted him when he still had some innocence and a yielding, young body.

I don’t know why I had come to Italy and gone on a pilgrimage of men who had loved youths and not been persecuted for doing so. But I did. I had to go somewhere; I couldn’t live in the States or England anymore. I was too well known there and too old. Pursuing men half my age invited derision and detraction from what I wrote. Returning to Naples from Capri, rather than spending the night there as I planned, I got in my rental car and drove further south, down the Tyrrhenian Sea coast of Italy on the E45, down to Salerno and then on a road hugging the coast closer until I got hungry. It was early afternoon and it was getting hot in the unconditioned air of the rental car interior. I turned off the highway onto a secondary road and drove to the coast, looking for a restaurant.

I arrived in a small, old harbor town, stepping down steep hillsides on three sides into a beautiful little harbor cove, with idle fishing boats bobbing lazily on the northern side tied up to narrow wooden piers and a sandy beach running around the southern curve of the cove. It was a Saturday, and the commercial activity in the village was scarce and languid. I’m sure that in centuries past the fishermen went out every day to catch their fish, but those days were gone. The Mediterranean had become so overfished that commercial fishing no longer was permitted on the weekends. Now the fishermen took naps on Saturday and Sunday, and more power to them. At that point of the day I would welcome a nap as well. It would be nice to have someone to nap with, of course.

All of the houses were either ocher painted or white washed, with red tile roofs. Very picturesque. I had seen no sign telling me what the name of the town was, and the buildings tumbling down the hillside to the water were set so close together, separated by cobblestone paths, that I had to park the car at the top of the hill and walk down. Surely there would be restaurants down in the harbor, I thought.

There were a couple of restaurants there and I picked one with an outside terrace facing the water from where I could watch the activity among the fishing boats, as bare-chested men cleaned them, as well as a group of young men and youths playing a game of soccer on the beach on the southern side of the cove. I was close enough to see the forms and faces of the beautiful older teenage youths and young men and share their joy at the play. They played in just shorts and sneakers, their sleek, beautiful bodies moving like a troupe of synchronized dancers. One older teenager, in particular, a beautiful, sultry, dark-haired youth of perfect form, looked up at me occasionally and smiled shyly. My body betrayed its interest in him.

I took a long time at my lunch, not wishing to move on as long as there were so many beautiful youths moving so gracefully on the sand. I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly four in the afternoon. I had no idea where I was driving from here. The Isle of Capri had been my last programmed stop before driving on down the peninsula and switching to the other coast, to Brindisi, where I had read there were other villas where Roman emperors had kept, trained, and played with their young male lovers.

I decided that this was as good a place to stop for the night as any other. I had passed a small hotel on the upper slopes of the town on my way down the narrow and steep cobblestone pathway to the harbor from where I’d parked the car. I stopped at the hotel on the way back up to the car park. Yes, they had a nice room, with a balcony, overlooking the harbor, the black-clad wizened old woman at the reception desk said. It had its own bath too, she added, which, considering the pride with which she said it, made me think that private bathrooms in hotels along the coast in villages tucked away like this weren’t necessarily the norm. I felt lucky I’d found such a room available for the night.

After viewing the room, clucking to the old lady about how nice it was, and paying for the night, I climbed back up to the rental car, made sure it was parked where it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone, and retrieved my small suitcase. I had left Rome that morning before dawn for the drive down the coast, and the heavy, but delicious, fish meal had made me drowsy, so I stripped naked; laid down on the bed, with the French window to the balcony open to what little breeze there was coming up from the sea; languidly masturbated to the fantasy of dancing among the young soccer players on the beach with all of them gathering around me to watch me cover the one I was interested in. In my daydream I was rising and falling on him, watching the dreamy, yielding expression on his face at the taking, until I achieved a release both in the dream and in the hotel bed. Then I slept the contented sleep of the dead until after dark.

It was after nine when I left the hotel and went back down to the harbor, to the same restaurant, for dinner. Candles were set out on the terrace dining area and similar lights sparkled throughout the harbor village and cascaded down to reflect in the water of the cove. It was all very lovely.

I was surprised to find that the waiter was the beautiful young man I had seen playing soccer on the beach in the afternoon—the one I had smiled at and who had smiled back at me, frequently looking up to the terrace at me and, at least in my imagination, had been batting his long, dark eyelashes at me—the one I had fucked in my dreams while napping that afternoon. Perhaps he wasn’t batting his eyelashes then, but he did now as he waited on my table. Nineteen-year-olds, which I gauged the waiter to be, were my fetish and my downfall. As I watched him move about the restaurant terrace, I hardened up again and fantasized laying him on top of one of the unoccupied restaurant tables.

A young man, possibly twenty or twenty-one, was sitting on a stool in the corner of the terrace, playing a guitar and softly singing what must be Italian love songs or lullabies. He too was smiling at me and batting his eyelashes. He too was a beautiful, sultry, dark-haired young man. I wondered if all of the men of this remote—almost hidden, at least for me—village were this beautiful. I saw no reason not to accept that they were. I felt the stirring inside me—the need.

The young waiter’s name was Paulo, and he took every opportunity to speak with me, using his limited English, trying to improve his knowledge of the language, which was sufficient for the purpose. I encouraged any contact with him. We exchanged what little background information we could, given Paulo’s limited English. I did manage to ascertain, as I had gauged and hoped, that Paulo was nineteen—just. I saw him go to the guitarist and overheard the word “American.” It was clear that being an American was earning me some cachet with these young men. It wasn’t long before the guitarist took a break. Rather than going into the interior of the restaurant, he came over to my table.

“Excuse me. You are alone, I think. Paulo tells me you are an American. You were here this afternoon, watching us play football on the sands. Do you mind if I sit and speak to you about America for a few minutes before I go back to the guitar?”

Now I remembered him, tanned and extremely fit, moving around shirtless, as did the others. Another perfectly formed young man, but with the torso of a man—achingly beautiful, of course, but more fully developed than aroused me the most.

“Certainly, sit,” I said. “I am enjoying your playing. And this is a lovely setting, with beautiful people everywhere.”

“You think we are beautiful here in this small village? More beautiful than people living beyond here? America is the land of beautiful people, isn’t it? There are times when I wonder if there is anywhere beyond here. We are so isolated. But you really think we are beautiful? You think I am beautiful? Do you think I would be thought to be beautiful in America—desirable? Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No, not at all,” I said, and then laughed. “I meant I don’t mind if you smoke. You are a beautiful young man, yes. You would be thought to be very handsome in America too. Most Americans don’t keep as fit as you are, I’m afraid. America has become the land of self-indulgence and excess, I’m sorry to admit, which leads most Americans to be noticeably overweight. Few are as fit as those I saw playing ball on the beach today.”

“But you have,” he said, “kept fit.” He gave me a knowing smile and reached over and touched one of my nipples through the material of my shirt. My nipples were puffed out and clearly showed through the material. I had to get used to the Italians’ use of their hands, I thought, acting with more easy familiarity than most Americans do. His touch may mean nothing. But, again, it might mean something.

“You mean for my age, I think,” I couldn’t help saying. I was possessed with the idea of getting older.

“I mean for any age,” he said. “I find men your age—what thirty-five?—very interesting. They usually are very experienced, especially if they are as handsome and fit as you are.”

I’m embarrassed that I didn’t correct him on my age. What he was offering, though, was becoming clear and I chose to pursue it. “You mentioned wanting to be desirable. Desirable to . . . ?”

“To men. To older, but fit men . . . like you,” he responded. It was quite clear now.

He took a pack of cigarettes out of a fold he’d made on the sleeve of his short-sleeved T-shirt. I looked at him more closely in the flare of his lighter. He was, in fact, extremely handsome. And his body was perfectly formed, a lightly muscular chest, with firm biceps, the torso tapering down to a thin waist and narrow hips. My mind went back to this afternoon when I’d watch him play soccer on the beach, and I couldn’t conjure up any imperfection in the young man—other than age and progressing development. The face was classical Italian beauty.

“You are very fit indeed,” I said. “Do you go out with the fishing boats?”

“On the days we’re allowed to go out, yes,” he said. “There are fewer and fewer fish in the sea, so we aren’t allowed to go out every day. In the evening, I play the guitar and sing here. And in the night, I have other things I can do to make money.” He gave me a sideways sly look. More signaling, I wondered.

“I enjoy your music,” I said. I’m sure I would enjoy what could come after that too, but I didn’t speak of it then. I didn’t really have to. He obviously was working his way in that direction, and he was moving there rather quickly. It occurred to me that he probably worked here in the evening to hook up with men who would pay him for his body. If he’d been a bit younger, I would have taken the lead. He was beautiful enough, though, for me not to cut this off. He wasn’t too old that I wouldn’t pay to use his body.

“My name is Umberto,” he said, catching that I was closely scrutinizing his body. “I go with men—with handsome men, like you. I see how you look at me. I see how you look at Paulo. You have a beautiful laugh. I think you are a beautiful man. You are here alone, and you look lonely and like you would like to ask me something—or ask Paulo something. You go with men too—and youths—do you not? Do you want to fuck me? I can go either way—top or bottom—whatever you like?”

“Excuse me?” I said, not hiding the shock—as much the shock of him reading my mind as in how blatantly he’d rushed to the point. “How could you suppose—?”

He had a hand on my thigh. It moved to my crotch. This wasn’t just casual Italian familiarity.

“Because your body does not lie. Your eyes do not lie. I saw you this afternoon when we were playing football on the beach. You wanted Paulo. You wanted him sexually. I was a little jealous that it was Paulo you were wanting and not me. I can see it and feel it here. You have been hard since Paulo was serving you your dinner. Can you be hard for me too? I am lonely tonight too. I would not cost you much. I know you are booked at the hotel near the top of the village. I think you have stopped here for the night because you want to bed Paulo or another youth. I would like to go with you. I know how to go upstairs in the hotel without going past the reception desk. That doesn’t matter anyway; the old woman at the desk understands the world and the needs of men like us. I go with men. I lie under men. I will fuck you if that is what you prefer, but I think it is that you ache to fuck a youth like me. You could fuck me tonight and Paulo tomorrow. I’m sure he would go with you. Or you could fuck us both tonight, if you wish. Or we could both fuck you. Have you had two nice cocks inside you at one time before?”

Oh, good lord, I thought. I swelled under his fondling of my crotch. He reached over with his free hand to touch my nipple through the material of my shirt again, and this time he didn’t take it away. This time he took the nub between his thumb and a finger and played with it, making me moan.

“Or am I being too forward for you?” he asked. “Are men looking for men to fuck not as open and honest about their desires in America as we are here in Italy?”

“No, you are not being too forward,” I said, turning a smile on for him. “I find you quite refreshing.”

“We are in the shadows here,” he said, “and no one here cares much anyway. I will feel you and you can feel me and, if all is good, I will come to your room with you and I will give you head and then you can fuck me—very reasonable price for an American, I think.”

He leaned in for a kiss, and I didn’t resist. He tasted like the wine I had been drinking. As we kissed, he felt me up under the surface of the table—and I felt him up as well.

* * * *

I fucked him on the bed in my hotel room—or rather, he fucked himself on my shaft initially. We were both naked. His body was beautiful, and mine must have been at least adequate, as he went hard quickly as I was fondling the nakedness of him, and he went down on his knees, taking my shaft into his mouth. This was no virgin to men. He had a soft mouth and he knew how to use it on a cock.

I lay on the bed, feet dangling off the end, as he knelt on the floor and gave me head. As he sucked, he ran his hands over my body. I had already done so with him, savoring the beauty and suppleness of him. He was better developed than I really preferred, but he was a gorgeous young man. Perhaps just not quite young enough for me to fully enjoy taking charge of and controlling—doing what I wanted to do with an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old.

After he had taken me to full erection with his mouth, he rose and came up into my lap, holding the root of my cock erect while positioning it at his hole, rubbing it on his rim to help him dilate sufficiently—I am a well-endowed man—and then sliding down on the cock while kneeling on my lap, with his bent knees on either side of my hips, holding onto my biceps with his hands and, when fully saddled, rising and falling on the cock. Fucking himself on my shaft. He knew how to do this.

He looked down into my eyes with an expression of fully enjoying the fuck. I was paying him, but he was completely engaged, as if we were dedicated lovers. I tried to meet his gaze with the same—exhibiting that I was fully enjoying it, not just enjoying it enough to maintain an erection.

The friction of the fuck aroused me enough to become more animated. I took his narrow waist between my hands and helped raise and lower him. I moved him from side to side too and in a circular motion, making sure that every surface of his passage was receiving attention. He got into the fuck, pushing my back onto the surface of the bed, pressing his palms into the hollows of my shoulders, and gyrating on my shaft—rising high and slamming down, picking up the pace of the pumping, stopping periodically to rock forward and back. He was panting and gasping, moaning and groaning, riding me hard. With a little cry, he released his seed on my belly and, tensing and jerking, tensing and jerking, I gave him two loads of my cum deep in his passage. It hadn’t all drained, though. My body was holding back a bit—not much, but enough that I, at least, noticed.

Umberto collapsed on me, moaning and purring. He found my lips with his and we kissed. It wasn’t a lingering kiss, though.

When he lifted his face from the kiss, he captured my eyes with his and gave me a searching look.

“That was very nice,” I said.

“Yes, but?” he countered.

“No but. I enjoyed that immensely.”

“I think you enjoyed it, but not immensely,” he said, rolling away from me, leaning down to where he’d dropped his clothes, coming up with his pack of cigarettes and a lighter, lighting up, and going over to the French window out onto the balcony. It was open to let in the summer breeze, and he leaned into the frame of the doorway and puffed on his cigarette. His body was magnificent. He was a young god, completely comfortable in his nakedness and as well sculpted as any of the statues of young men and youths I’d seen that morning in the Naples museum . . . and yet.

“I know my men. I think it is Paulo you want to fuck,” he said after a few minutes of silence. “I think I am too old for your tastes. I think that you are sorry that Paulo was gone from the restaurant when we left.”

“Umberto,” I said, “you’re a gorgeous young man.” I didn’t say I wasn’t sorry that Paulo hadn’t been on offer tonight as well—because I was.

“It is all right. I understand. It was a good fuck. It was very good for me. You have given me more than enough for the fuck. You are very generous. And you are a handsome man—very fit for your age. Big-cocked. I like that. I like that a lot. The men in the village age quickly and they sit in the square and drink so much that they quickly go to fat. You have a great body and you give good fuck. I enjoyed it. You enjoyed it. Just not ‘immensely.’ I think it is Paulo you want to fuck. You want to fuck a youth. Paulo is nineteen. You want to fuck nineteen, not twenty-one. It is OK. You have a very nice cock. I—”

“Umberto. Umberto.”

“What?”

“Shut up, Umberto, and come back here.” He tossed his cigarette over the balcony railing and came back to the bed. I grabbed his wrists, turned him, and slammed his back down on the bed. His eyes were flashing at me. I moved my knees between his thighs and leaned over, his wrists still in my grasp, and took his lips with mine, forcing them open, moving my tongue inside. As I brutally kissed him, I moved my knees under his buttocks, positioned my cock, and cruelly thrust up into his passage, still open and stretched to my needs from the first fuck. He was game for a second fuck. He was as tall and nearly as muscular as I was. He could have fought me for control, but he didn’t.

He raised his pelvis to me, planting his feet flat on the mattress to gain leverage, and began to rock against me. We bounced up and down on the bed. The headboard grated against the wall as I pumped him hard and deep. I prayed that the sound didn’t descend two flights to the reception lobby. I fucked the hell of out him and flooded him with my cum again.

He lay there gasping and panting—and smiling and looking at me with awe—as I rolled off him, pulled a cigarette out of his pack, went over to the French window, and took up the pose that he had left.

I’d done what I needed to do. I hadn’t said he was wrong about me really wanting Paulo, because he hadn’t been wrong. But I knew how to fuck a man—and fucking a twenty-one-year-old was closer to my ideal and preference than doing an older man. So, I performed.

“That was more than nice,” he murmured when he could get his breath. “You fucked me good—immense—you have a big cock. Immense. You fucked me good.”

“And you have enough experience with men to compare?” I shot back. He’d said it. I hadn’t been convinced that he was a frequently practicing male whore, but after his performance I needed to assess that. He’d named a price, but it had been so small, I didn’t think he was a pro. I hadn’t taken that this was a small Italian village, not New York or even Rome, though.

“Enough,” he said, with a smile, standing his ground.

I smiled back and puffed on his cigarette. “Yes, I fucked you good, Umberto,” I said. But I had been thinking of Paulo when I was fucking Umberto.

He took his money and left smiling.

* * * *

The next morning, Sunday, I paid for another night in the hotel and roamed the village during the hours before noon, listening to the bells on the village church ringing endlessly. I saw several houses with “for rent” or “for sale” signs and a few buildings that looked deserted. But the village wasn’t run down. The younger people probably were leaving for the city, but they’d been doing that everywhere in the world for decades. Those who had stayed here were taking pride in their village. They were keeping it up.

And the young men here were beautiful. Everywhere I turned there were beautiful men. I thought of what Umberto had said about the village men going to pot as they got older, and that made me a bit melancholy. It did, however support my fetish for young men.

At lunch I sat and watched the boats in the harbor, and, of course, the young men playing soccer on the beach again. From time to time, when I looked down at the beach, I could see both Umberto and Paulo looking up at me on the terrace of the restaurant and whispering to each other.

That afternoon, in the heat of the day, I stripped in my room, with the French window open and the ceiling fan going whop, whop, whop overhead, and I slept. I dreamed of lying with an Italian youth. Not a twenty-one-year-old man. An eighteen- or nineteen-year-old youth. Not with Umberto. With Paulo, running my hands over the supple, sleek skin of teenager’s torso rather than the muscular one of a young man. I woke up in erection and with my hand gripping my cock. I let it finish its work—and fantasized of my hands gliding over the golden tan, supple skin of the nineteen-year-old youth, my fingers finding and entering his passage, and Paulo arching his back and rocking on the buried fingers as I slowly dilated him to my needs.

I went back to the restaurant at nine for dinner. Umberto was in the corner, playing his guitar and singing a sad song. He didn’t stay as long as he had the previous night, though. An older man, alone at a nearby table, heavy and coarse-looking in middle age as the other mature men of the village appeared to be, went over and talked with Umberto and they left together. Ah, he really was the village male prostitute, I thought. Even the local men used his services and he willingly went with them even if they were ugly. That was fine with me. I wished Umberto well, hoping that he would be fucked by a man more aroused by him than I was. Not that Umberto wasn’t arousing. He was a beautiful young man. He just wasn’t my fetish.

My waiter, Paulo, who was my fetish, came after my dessert and coffee were served and consumed, stood close to me, and said, “Umberto says you want to fuck me. Do you want to fuck me now? I can leave the restaurant now. You are a beautiful man. I am happy to go with you for little money. You are an American. You will not think me expensive.”

“Yes, Paulo, I want to fuck you.”

* * * *

Holding him close under me, his belly to the bed, with me holding his pelvis up high enough that he could reach his cock and jack himself, while, deep inside him, I took him in long, slow slides after I had carefully worked him to ensure his passage was stretched enough to sheath me. Glide, glide, glide.

Paulo was panting and gasping. He called out in a strangled voice, “Sì, sì, padrone! È così grande!”

“Big. Too big, did you say?” I asked, concerned for him, but not intending to stop or even to slow up. In fact, I was moving faster, digging deeper. I would be working him hard in a few minutes. But he’d be totally open to me, yielding to me, surrendering to me. He would suffer, but he would love it. I would love him beyond the pain into paradise. Glide, glide, thrust, glide, thrust.

“Sì, sì, padrone! Dammelo. Fanculo a me!—Yes, yes, Master. Give it to me! Fuck me!”

I held Paulo close, tight to my body, my pelvis moving. Mining his ass. Loving it. Making love to my sweet, tender, smooth-skinned youth. Thrust—Augustus in Agrippa. Thrust—Trajan in Hadrian. Thrust—Hadrian in the god Antinous. Thrust—Tiberius in all the youths. Thrust—Elagabalus in the Smyrna athlete Zoticus. The fraternity of Roman emperors—men—loving their young men. Men fucking much younger men. When in Italy . . .

Just . . . can’t . . . help it. He wasn’t totally virginal, but he was fresh enough—and willing and yielding.

“Sì, sì, padrone! Dammelo. Fanculo a me!”

Being very good, very, very good to my young man. Thrust, thrust, thrust.

Paulo lay there on the bed, on his belly, an arm dangling over the side in exhaustion and completion, his eyes following me as I moved about the room and went to the window and leaned into the doorframe, looking down at the lights in the harbor. I was in heaven. It had been fifteen minutes since I breeded him. I was in erection again. I looked over at him. His buttocks were pointed at me, his sleek torso stretched out, his pink little hole dilated, pulsing, reamed to my needs, dripping my cum, ready for me again.

“Sei così grande, padrone—You are so big, Master.”

“Yes I am. Too big for you?” I’d ask, but I didn’t really care what he answered. The sense of being too big for him was part of the arousal of the fetish. He stretched for me once; he’d do it again . . . and again.

“No, padrone, non troppo grande per me. Ogni volta sarà più facile. Sii buono con me. Torna da me—No, master, not too big for me. Each time will be easier. Be good to me. Come back to me.”

I smiled. The young man was mine. “Yes, Paulo, I’ll be very good to you.”

And then I was. I pushed off from the doorframe and went back to the bed, gently lifting and turning him, putting him on his back, pulling his pert little buttocks down to the foot of the bed, running my hands lovingly over his sleek, smooth-skinned torso, grasping his ankles and raising and spreading his legs. Positioning the bulb of my cock at his pulsing, dilated, pink hole. Grasping my shaft and rimming his hole with the mushroom cap, teasing the hole to dilate more. And then . . .

He cried out, arched his back and head, and yawned and babbled to the ceiling as I entered him and started to slow pump him again. I sensed him settling down, relaxing, melding to me. I moved my right hand from his leg, which he wrapped around me, placing his heel on my buttocks. My hand went to palming the small of his back, pulling him in to me with each sinking stroke inside him. He rocked against me in synch to my rhythm, and we became one, coordinated unit, a synchronized fucking machine—giving and taking, luxuriating in each other. We were fucking—not just me—we. We had found our groove.

“Sì, sì, sì,” he sobbed and I repeated that, “Yes, yes, yes,” timing each “yes” with a thrust, met with his thrust against me, impaling himself deeper, the muscles of his walls undulating over the stretching shaft, both of us holding there after an eternity of blissful pumping, panting lightly, all senses of both of us concentrating on his rippling channel walls milking my pulsing cock dry.

At the door later, where he was standing with the money in his hand I gave him, I said, “Tomorrow night?”

“Sì, padrone. Domani sera—Yes, Master. Tomorrow night.” He was looking down at his feet, diffidently, but he was giving a little smile. It was more money than he’d ever seen at one time before. I don’t know if it really was the only big cock he’d ever sheathed before—he had taken mine too well to have been a virgin. Umberto may not be the only male whore working at that restaurant. But I didn’t care as long as he took mine until he was twenty.

Then? What then? Paulo wasn’t the only nubile young man I’d watched playing soccer on the harbor beach.

“I enjoyed that immensely, Paulo,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t understand what I meant by that. But I understood. I knew what I wanted and needed.

The next day I contacted the town’s realtor, inspected all of the houses in the village that were for rent, and put money down on one of them. I still didn’t know what the name of this village was. It didn’t seem to matter. Then I walked to the terrace restaurant and settled in to watch the soccer play on the beach. There weren’t as many of them today. It was Monday. The workweek had started and some of the young men had jobs. There was one small, blond, though, gliding gracefully around, perfectly proportioned. It looked like it wouldn’t be long before he was eighteen. He kept looking up at the terrace—at me—and smiling. I smiled back. I could wait.