The Grand Tour: Europe

The Grand Tour: Milan

Some years ago I wrote a piece called "The Grand Tour: Europe. In fact this is a continuation of that with, basically, the same characters just some name and occupation changes. All the places mentioned here are real, about 90% of what happens in here happened there a long time ago. One of my closest friends lives in Milan and I owe him a "Thank You" for going back and checking to see how much things had changed. His answer, the halls in the hotel had been newly carpeted.

To clarify just a bit, although my first installment ended in Paris with Tom being sent back to California, in fact he continued on with me. Having dispatched him  literarily I had to invent a new character, Larry, who represents Tom, I've not put in everything that happened, shortened the time this actually represents but other than that, this is what happened....a long time ago and, in retrospect, however it seemed then, I had a helluva a good time. 

I'll try and get the last part up in less than a year.....  

What do I know about tires other than they go flat, need air, must have the same brand on one axle? Why? .....that's about it. I can't change one-that's why God invented AAA-beyond that, zip. We've hit the Oort Cloud of my knowledge on tires. So why, I asked myself, was I in Milan-Milano to the locals-visiting with the Pirelli Tire Company? Very nice people, charming, certainly I was wined and dined and, a couple of times, fucked, by a certain executive and all of this so I'd go back to the New World and say nice things about them and, who knew? perhaps be given a set of tires for my car; Sort of revive the Axis powers, Italian tires on a German car.
 
In the process of being dined one evening I heard a voice, a call, a cry that was frighteningly familiar. I'd heard it before, just not in Italy and not, usually, in fine restaurants in any city. Imagine the cry of a wild Cockatoo being goosed and you've an approximation of what I heard. Doing the only sensible thing, I dropped my napkin and got on the floor pretending to look for it. Umberto, my host, finally stuck his head under the cloth and asked, in a rather puzzled tone, if all was well? It was a two part answer, not that I wanted to give either of them; No, nothing was wrong and B. All hell could have broken loose had the Cockatoo seen me.
 
Larry Prentice was a gifted idea man as well as an artist for a major advertising firm. (I'll delete their name for they had no responsibility for what happened.) I'd known him as we traveled in overlapping gay and professional circles in California and had used their firm, and him, on several occasions to the joint pleasure of all concerned. I want to make this absolutely clear, while I may have used the firm by which he was employed I never, not once, nesuno, ever used Larry in the carnal sense. Not that he didn't make overt moves-appearing naked in my office-but it was to no effect save he was thrown out of our offices as well as almost the building. On all possible occasions, I avoided him but, as I said, we were in overlapping circles and total evasion wasn't possible.
 
On the flight over I'd never thought of him although had I done so I would have sniggered to myself that as the seconds zipped by, I was further from him. Turned out as those same seconds zipped by, I was going toward him. Had that knowledge been made known to me I would not have got on the plane; As with most adults, I had my own small corner on problems and could find no reason to add to it….and Larry would have added to it.
 
You can only slump in a chair at a dining table for just so long before it's noticed and commented upon. Feeling that the truth may not exactly set you free but it did offer an explanation that was true if bizarre. With some careful editing I told Umberto a version of the truth-fortunately my sexual preferences were known, I never hid them nor did I make any attempts to "get to know" other executives who worked for me or with whom I worked. Period. Does this mean I wasn't approached? Hell no. Does this mean I never accepted? Hell no but......not the first time or the second, there after, it depended on how long I was in town. I am not a one night stand person unless you are referring to watching an eclipse or a meteor shower but beyond those, no. A "quicky" to me is when I Must go the bathroom do a one or two-immediately. I realize that I'm painting a portrait of staid, boring man in his mid thirties, very successful and, I'll quote others, fine looking. Tall, very tall, too tall on some occasions, multi-lingual, well educated (fight on for USC), polite, a good conversationalist and, again, I'll quote others, a fine fucker. Again, draw your own conclusions as to the latter; I’m only quoting, not making a personal comment.
 
Umberto's lovely, heavily lashed, deep brown eyes got bigger-he, too had heard the sound-as I explained the situation and, the Italian love of plots, immediately recognized where we needed to be just then was, oh, on a heavily armed Gondola on a canal in Venice. He waved his arms-one of my favorite Italian things, hand waving as one never knew what would happen-and we headed for a door marked "No Entrance.....okay....Non Entrata" to get out and away. Remember I'm tall? We both heard the screech that could have been tires but wasn't, it was Larry yelling, "Evanevanevan" and pointing at me, rising from his seat, which fell over, and headed for us. Slowly and beneath his breath I could hear Umberto mumbling, "Scatascatascata...." in recognition of the truth I'd just told him.
 
The three of us crashed through the door at about the same time, Umberto and Larry ending on the floor more or less entangled in each other while I was rather smartly struck in the eye with a hanging bird feeder. This was not a good thing unless you were Larry who looked at Umberto, I could almost sense him licking his lips, and said, "You are a cutey......". I wished I'd been hit in both eyes so whatever happened, I wouldn't be able to give witness testimony. What I did do was keep one eye on both his hands whilst offering a hand to Umberto with a thought to getting him up and out and on the road. We'd been jogging the day before so, even though both of us were in Armani suits, I knew we could kill the Kilometers and put distance between ourselves and Larry. It was a good, maybe even a great plan, it just didn't work as a cuff link on Umberto's shirt got snagged in Larry's belt buckle: Think about this, it could have been worse, it could have snagged on his zipper...
 
Feeling as if I'd been marched to the wall, tied to a pole, offered a last cigarette before I was blindfolded and shot-the latter seemed tempting-once the two were unsnarled and upright, I had to make the introductions. In Italian. Heheheheh. Larry looked dumb, eager, but dumb to hear the name I muttered. Remember that wall? I was against it, made the introduction and giving Larry no chance to say anything, I took Umberto's arm, claimed my eye needed immediate attention and we quickly walked away. It hadn't been good or pretty but we were now moving and Larry showed no signs of pursuing us.
 
We found a Trattoria that looked like the sort of place Mafiosi hung out-which precluded Larry even getting in the door-where Umberto seemed to know people. Sympathy wound round us like a warm, fuzzy blanket, first a bowl of ice was produced then an ice bag followed by a good rough red wine which we finished quickly-no wine glasses, just drinking glasses. Another bottle and a piece of beef steak, for my eye, were produced and the evening took a very big turn for the better. Following Umberto's lead, I peeled off my coat, removed my tie, unbuttoned a couple on my shirt, leaned back and felt the cold, cold water drip through the hair on my chest, down the treasure trail and into my crotch. It looked like a pleasant evening was, finally, ahead.
 

 
The doorbell rang and I fell out of a bed in a wandering attempt to get up to answer it. That I was wearing nothing didn't occur to me although, marginally, I saw my clothes in a crooked line, from the door to the bed. Luckily, if there was a mirror, I didn't see it, that was a "thrill" for later. Right then suicide would have been a great idea for lots of reasons but, no such luck, the door was pulled open and...there was Larry, bright as brass and carrying a tray with  coffee and food of some sort; He told me he'd high jacked it from a room service waiter.
 
In a voice that ran up through at least ten octaves and almost shattered my good eye, he pointed out that I looked like hell, pushed by me, set the tray on a table and looked at me. Also behind me into the bed room.
 
"Ummmm. And what souvenir of Italy did you bring home?"
 
Huh? I looked behind me which is when I saw I hadn't slept alone, not that I knew with whom I'd slept but not alone. Unwilling to explain something for which there was no immediate explanation, I closed the door blocking any further viewing, found a dress shirt on the floor, put it on, sat down and realized on such a shirt, it rides up; My crotch nicely framed by the V formed by the two front panels of the shirt.
 "Larry, do not, I repeat, do not say anything, just go find me two warm beers."
 The gag reflex was apparent on his face. No idea what was on my mind, but warm beer, whatever the circumstance, didn't seem a good idea. However, for all I saw as his negative qualities, he was the soul of kindness and sympathy; However weird it seemed, he got up and out in search of two warm beers. Which left me time to find out who'd been sleeping in my bed.
 
Turning back the covers I realized we'd done more than just sleep, there's something about left over sperm/cum that leaves traces even if its dried. Just whose it was....who knew? As to the body, the first thing that I could tell was that it was young, very handsome, but very young. Whoever it was did that stretch one does when you're asleep and rolled away; He was just as attractive that way especially his firm, biscuity bubble butt that looked freshly fucked. That was obvious as there was a hardened stream of white material that said quite clearly what had happened, no point in wondering whose it was. In amongst the unshaven hair on my nuts was the same sort of material that didn't need a DNA test to see if it matched what I could see in front of me. No time to wonder about that, certainly I'd find out soon enough.
 
About then my eye reminded me that it was in pain and my other eye pointed out that I was wearing a shirt that was neither warm nor covering. As with all great hotels, and the Savoia was one, there was a warm, heavy terry cloth robe in the bath room. With Larry out in search and seizure mode of warm beer, I needed some ice, a request room service could and would provide.
 
Back to the sitting room, with the door to the bedroom closed, I waited to see who would show up first; My money was on room service only because finding two warm beers in all of Milan-possibly in all of Italy-at that hour of the morning had to be something of a task. Turned out, it was a dead heat, room service and Larry broke the tape at exactly the same moment and I was equally glad to see both of them. The waiter, obviously puzzled, but too well trained other than to wonder if there was anything else he could do, had no bill but a tip was necessary, which Larry generously provided.  That's when the door to the bedroom opened and an attractive young man walked out, all smiles, apparently looking for coffee. Everyone, room service waiter included, looked at me. Then at him. Then back at me; As I had been, so was he, naked.
 
I looked back at them, what else was I to do? Make introductions? I didn't know who  he was and, if I'd ever known, that information hadn't yet been filed on my mental Rolodex. Instead, acting as if nothing unusual had happened, I ordered more coffee as well as a large continental breakfast for three. The waiter left to, no doubt, carry tales throughout the inner workings of the hotel. Not that I thought anything would happen, but I was known there and it had never, ever happened to me. Sure, I'd brought men back with me, had them in my rooms, fucked them, slept with them and had breakfast from room service but I'd known who they were not to mention when room service showed up, we'd been covered in robes or something appropriate for the consumption of a Continental Breakfast.
 
With as much presence of mind as I could muster, I asked him to re-introduce himself as I was suddenly stricken stupid. That was what I wanted but far less than what I got. Cheerful as a Spring morning, he said he was Johan, was from Switzerland, was a student in Milan, worked at a Trattoria where we'd met. Adding, just incidentally, that he was from Zug.
 
I'll say this, although he spoke not a word of Italian, Larry had been silent and amazed, didn't even ask me for a translation which, this must be obvious, I wasn't going to provide save his name. He rolled "Johan" around in his mind and that didn't come up as particularly Italian. No point in going on about Switzerland, that was extraneous information that had no purpose in this place in this time. To avoid further questions and answers I took my beer and chugged it. That's how I'd been taught how to do it by a ranch hand in Mule Shoe, Texas  (Yes, it really exists, look it up ) and, amazingly, though it's no cure of any major disease, it does cut into a hangover.
 
Another door, which I'd thought was a closet, opened and Umberto staggered out, nude-that was becoming quite the fashion statement-followed by another young man, nude, another waiter from the Trattoria. Evidently I looked familiar and, probably, so did Larry, so he headed for us. Without a thought I handed him the one remaining warm beer and told the room service waiter to go find a six pack or six warm ones, who cared how they were packaged.
 
There was a belch that rattled the crystal chandelier but no damage. Meanwhile his companion had a cup of coffee and had selected a roll of some sort. Umberto and I just looked at each other, no explanation necessary or wanted. Well, not by me or him but Larry.....Larry was a font of questions. To set the scene, there are now three naked men, Larry in a designer suit that erred on the side of a bit too fitted, me, in a bathrobe and the promised return of the room service waiter.
 
"In my bathroom, there may be more robes......" Umberto lurched in that direction leaving his, well, probably his companion of the previous evening, alone with us. Out of automatic courtesy, I stuck out my hand to him and said, "Evan....this is Larry, Johan...."
 "Fabrizio". Johan and Fabrizio seemed to know one another perhaps not surprisingly.
 
So much for the niceties. Umberto returned shortly, and a very long shortly it was as all we did was sit there and try not to look at one another. Well, Larry looked and probably appraised; He was wondering if either Johan or Fabrizio would like to sit on his lap ......which was not going to happen.
 
Umberto returned wearing a robe and carrying a bath sheet for Fabrizio. All we needed now was the waiter with whatever he was going to bring. I mean, apart from the beer.
 
Clever lad, he was carrying two pots of coffee, cups, saucers, a large pile of croissants and rolls as well as a jug filled with Orange Juice and several breakfast sorts of things-for reasons I could wholly understand, he was uncertain as to the head count and figured, wisely, that more is better. By now I felt we should ask him to stick around just to see what might happen next and if or when it did, could room service could be of any assistance. Signed the check, wrote in a generous tip and we all watched him bow his way out the door-Larry in particular; He hadn’t yet learned that, in Italy, room service waiters, particularly in the finer hotels, were hired for more than their abilities to haul trays, push trolleys or just be decorative as might be needed-whatever other talents they may have can be discovered on a sort of pay-as-you-go system. Looking at our specimen of servitor, and knowing the elegance and grandeur of his place of employment, one could only assume he was at the top in what was to be had in unemployed room service waiters, a fact some person in hiring could only have noticed if they’d looked from his attractive face to his bulging britches. Hired.      
 

 Everyone was being achingly polite in matters of handing round juice, coffee, rolls, butter , jam etc. Except for Umberto and I, who were starting on our second beer, just not as quickly. Fabrizio pulled back the curtains on what was a lovely, lovely day in Milan. The sun caught the two most taken in sin like a laser and we shuddered our request for interior gloom.
 
Trying to communicate privately was out of the question, everyone save Larry, spoke Italian and, probably with the exception of our two, uhm, sleeping partners, everyone spoke English. Full Stop. I had no clear picture as to the past several hours; Smart money would have said that Umberto was not going to be much help.
 
Johan, who must have had First Aid courses in Zug was making an ice bag to put on my eye, Fabrizio, somewhat at sea, pulled up a chair to join the group. Larry, mercifully hadn't opened his damn mouth once but then, given the accelerated events, why should he? I suppose he was wondering who or what was going to appear next. Privately I hoped we'd maxed out the number but based on the past several minutes, it would have been wrong to assume anything.
 
It was. Our room service waiter, getting to be an old friend, returned with several bath robes, more coffee, more rolls and an ice bag, specially made for me in the kitchen. Asking him to hang around didn't seem a good idea but he seemed only too anxious to be of service and a bump of intuition, sometimes called "Gaydar" was beginning to pick up incoming. Reading the plaque on his jacket, I asked, Paulo if he had a few moments, so much easier than calling him anytime something was needed. Did he agree? Is the Pope Argentinian? I'm sure with no prompting he would have loosened his jacket and his tie, and anything else, but I gave him what I hoped was the evil eye and he stood comfortably with his arms crossed near us to take any orders. I looked at Larry.
 
"Paulo is trying to ascertain if we need anything in specific." I paused just long enough to, I thought, get him up to speed. I forgot he didn't speak Italian. "The room service waiter, whose name is Paulo is wondering if we have any specific orders for him. Do we?"
 
We did. Larry wondered in English and yours truly as somewhat instant translator, if Paulo knew a quiet place in the hotel.....he didn't even get to trying to think up an excuse. Paulo was full of "Sisisis" and probably of Larry or both. Who cared.
 
How I would explain an absentee room service waiter to management I didn't know but....that was for later-if ever; Errant room service waiters was probably a frequent experience. That was two down, the least two important. Personally, I didn't care if Paulo shoved him down an unused elevator shaft just so long as he kept him occupied, or, conversely, Larry kept him occupied for the next several hours.
 
Ignoring our companions of the previous evening I looked at Umberto and he knew the question. Seems they'd selected him to "show me around" Milan, make me feel at home....and, as he was a Junior Executive, plus known to be gay as was I, the match was made. Okay, I'd had that happen before but....how did he and I end up in my hotel with young men? Somehow I didn't believe they volunteered for late work.
 
Almost ashamedly, it came out that he and Fabrizio had been "close" for some while so when the opportunity presented itself....at which point I stopped him. Young man, older man, readily accepted at a certain level of society and, I should have known this, Fabrizio was not of Umberto's class. Getting drunk had just happened, well, I knew that, but how did Johan end up with me? Umberto wasn't too clear on that one himself as to whether he volunteered or he’d been invited or some of each. Fine, although that didn’t precisely cover everything it seemed as far as I was likely to go. Now what?                                                                                                                                
 
His large brown eyes looked at me and I knew what he wanted. The sucker of the Western World sent the two back to the other bedroom leaving me alone with Johan. He took the ice pack, squeezed it, replaced it and tied it there with a pillow slip he ripped up. I'm sure that would appear on my bill as something.
 
"You are very good at fucking, very tender, very strong very masculine....I liked you." I wish I could have returned the compliment but as I had no knowledge of what we'd done, that wasn't possible. Or maybe it was. Taking me by the shoulder, and making sure the ice bag didn't slip, he moved us back to the bedroom, leaving the sitting room empty, save for a lot of coffee, rolls, orange juice and place settings for too many, empty for the first time since I wakened. By now his remaining hand was on my nuts, his eyes were looking at me and, as we went through the door I hung out the "Do Not Disturb" sign.
 

 In the gloom I hadn't really noticed Johan. My mind, already pre-scrambled, was diverted by the revolving door that had become my sitting room. Not to mention the surprise of Umberto, or, well, all the surprises in general. Johan was well worth noticing. Somehow, his being Swiss and their penchant for skiing as well as being generally healthy with well trained bodies didn't touch Johan. Not only had he been a down hill skier, but a ski jumper-I shuddered-as well, in his off time he also trained in gymnastics. His body was as perfectly composed as was possible. Hard body doesn't describe even though he certainly had one but his went further, it was the totality of it that was so amazing. On a pedestal and turned, there was no flaw, just perfection; A sculptor using him as a model had simply copied what he saw in front of him, big, low hangers but not so low that his cock didn’t drop below them. One could have used his well defined abs to cut bread, maybe even steel. With his beautiful gray eyes he sadly (!) said that at home in Zug he was considered a freak his time in the gymnasium and on the slopes-in summer he had skis on roller skates-was a waste of his time when he could be helping his father-only a diseased mind such as I now had, wondered if possibly his Swiss Daddy didn’t care about helping so much as being Daddy’s little fuck toy. All that working out had to find someone to appreciate it also...clearly whatever he and I had done the previous evening wasn’t a first for either of us. Okay, so I couldn’t remember exactly what we had done but Johan clearly had achieved, at minimum, ‘gifted amateur’ status. With the help of daddy?
 
His skin was soft, though not pliant, but like running your finger over some sort of material that was underpinned by shapes, very geometric shapes that gave the whole surface a look of the finest carved jade. I was fascinated by his large perfectly rounded nipples in that they were completely flat, just as if brown ink had been dropped in some liquid and only spread so far. I had an intuition....
 "How long since you lost your virginity?"
 "In the Spring, a man came to the restaurant and made a bid for me to the owner...."
 "A bid for you....?"
 "I'm indentured for two years in return for my education. I could not refuse. Since then, a few more men but Moro, the man who owns the restaurant, reserves me for the highest bidder."
 "What did I pay......" I was mortified that I would pay for sex from this very nice, very young man.
 "Nothing. I wanted you, the first man I've wanted and when you and Signore Umberto left, I slipped out and followed you. It was Fabrizio and I who got you to the hotel and into bed. I wanted you, I wanted you to make sex with me so I slipped into the bed with you. Your hands were soft, held my globes, kissed them, removed the sperm from my penis and I've never felt like that then asked, not told me, as is usual, if you might penetrate me, fuck me and, of course, I wanted that."
 
I pulled him closer to me until his back was flush with my chest. He folded his arms over mine, leaned his head and kissed my hand. One thing I knew, Johan was not going back to the restaurant although the options after that were unclear.
 
"No, young man, I've had you, now you may have me. I want that. I want to feel your muscles over me like a Boa climbing a tree, your balls between my legs, your manhood gently entering me then harder, harder still till I groan with ecstasy and you feel your juice flow out, that's what I want". He looked startled, almost afraid.
 "But Signore, it's not right, you are......"
 Amazing how conversation can be stopped with a well placed, determined kiss. I'm assuming that's something he hadn't done much-who in the hell in Switzerland could have overlooked this treasure?
 
He looked at me, not startled but disrupted, it wasn't what he expected to have to do. I reached for a condom and he took it away saying he had a health card. About me? He smiled, kissed me then said we could shower and be clean for each other.
 
I'd never paid much attention to my shower; The Savoia is an older hotel, probably pre world war 1 and as was the custom then, bathrooms were big, bathtubs could be used to sail a pond yacht.....He put his arm around my waist, drew me out of bed and into the bathroom. Son of a gun, there was a shower, I'd been in it  dozens of times over the years. Nice, big, tiled, bench for sitting and a display of nobs that offered everything from everyday hot and cold to hot and cold sea water although Milan was what? More than a hundred miles from the ocean.
 
In the spray of the shower his skin seemed to form rainbows in the drops that bounced off him. It was a thrill to work on his body, erotic and magnificent at the same time. I held his back against my chest, my meat hard, almost demanding to gain entry to the opening so close. He wanted to pull away from me and, from the way his knees were relaxing, I knew he would get down and take all of those parts that make me a man in his mouth at one time. There was time for that but now in the soft light, the warm water, the scent of two men in heat, to take one out of the game would have been an error,
 
In his ear I whispered, "Later, whatever you want of me, it's all yours....just later." He folded into me knowing that later was not so far off and then whatever he wanted, he would have. If he'd told me it would be the last time I could fuck or suck, I would have accepted that news gracefully knowing the price I would pay would be well worth it.
 
It was difficult to think of anything else with Johan in my arms but I needed to, his future, his plans had to be so diamond hard in my mind that accomplishing them was reduced to a matter of phone calls. If he was in Italy, then he had a passport and it would be an easy thing to get the embassy in Rome to issue some sort of long term visa. Put him on the plane, on to Los Angeles and there, when I got home, I'd figure out what to do next. Simple. All bad ideas seem simple at the time. The basis to all this was that I wanted Johan, not just for a fun fuck  but to wake up to, dine with, swim with, sun bathe with.....I just wanted him. Yes, I knew it was the most tenuous of acquaintances but fuck that, he also wanted me. Not just for sex but to be with me. The worst, I shuddered, was that in California he turned against me or was morbidly unhappy, there were planes to at least three cities in Switzerland every day. No damage done save to me but I didn't matter. Or so I told myself as I held him.
 
"Please, sir, please....take me again. I want to make you my man, make me yours, make you happy....." Slowly I released him, rolled him on his back, leaned down and like eating a delicacy, took his manhood in my mouth. I had to close my eyes to conjure up what I was thinking, about where we were, naked on a spit of sand with warm azure waters lapping until the gush of my stalk pushed into the sheets as his juice entered my mouth. It was not enough. I wanted him again and, holding him tight, began the sucking that would lead him through the agony of denial to the pleasure of the second time. When I was finished with him, he turned himself and offered his warm cavity, so clean, so demanding. On my knees I slowly let my prong slip into his mysterious chute, all the way, even past the ring which made him cry a bit but then I was there.
 
His amazing body took over, grabbed my tool, held it, demanded that it do what he wanted to have. He reached back, grasped my testicles in his hand, those strong hands, and began to squeeze wanting them to give me the spray of fertility that would fill him. It worked, I lost control as I felt my abdomen spasm, my balls try and escape him while my cock expanded only to be clenched by his strong ass, the better to squeeze me. I could feel the stream of life come down, wanting to commit suicide inside him. There were short, sharp shots as he alternately held and released me. In the end, I was empty, my nuts lay on the sheet like squashed grapes, my cock a wrinkled piece of something, not even flesh, that had been left behind.
 
He was on top of me. His mouth slopped up my almost deceased cock, sucked it in, lips closed about it, he would do to me what I had done to him; The second shot, the edging to get the most out, it would take him a long while. In another time, for this to work, I would have had to be tied down so I could strain as my own body writhed in pain. He took his teeth and carefully bit just were the head meets the body....I was to be eaten, consumed. He would have my life's sperm but the taste of my flesh; He was branding me, I could almost taste the small amount of blood coming out. His eyes were closed like a connoisseur finding the meal he's always wanted, the finest meat, the best wine......and he would feast on these succulent parts until they were gone.
 
By amazing dexterity, it took him nearly half an hour to finish me off the second time. He lay next to me, one hand  on my chest, his head facing mine, the other hand beneath me, just behind my decayed balls, rubbing my perineum. I wanted to look at him but couldn't, I was too taken with the man, separation wasn't even a consideration. With difficulty I rolled on my side, looked at him and in soft words told him he was not mine, I was not his but we belonged to each other. Tears fell from his eyes which he tried to blink away but the shine in them belayed the tears. We were headed toward being a pair….
 

 All well and good but problems circled about my head like a swarm of unfriendly wasps deciding on where to attack first.  Johan was not tired-he'd had more sleep-but only a gifted anesthesiologist could have roused me. I asked him if there would be any trouble getting his clothes, would this Moro person demand payment from me. To head that possibility off, I gathered up all the cash I had and then, I'm embarrassed to admit this, slipped into the room where Umberto and Fabrizio were and took all his cash. All together it was just South of fifteen hundred Euros.
 
I gave Johan very specific instructions, including the money, told him to get everything he owned, make the deal with Moro then get back to me. Pronto. He was nervous but desire for me-that alone got me hard-sent him off. It was my only chance....and I took it. The door wasn't closed before I was in bed and sound asleep. Visions of Johan danced in my head. One, which was too perverted to imagine but.....Johan was spread eagled on a steel bed. There was a hole that seemed to serve no purpose and he was strapped with steel bands. He could see me in a gallery above him, was frightened, didn't know what was to happen. A surgical light, but much brighter, illuminated him or part of him, his groin. By then I was sitting at a clothed table, a tureen on a warmer beside me.
 
Silently a nude man wearing a bow tie and a tiger stripe bikini, who bore a striking resemblance to Paulo, carrying a doctor's bag walked in, went to Johan, held up, first, his cock, and then his ball bag. The tureen was moved to the side of the man. A scalpel was produced which made an expert slice in the sack. He reached in, pulled out the two nuts, cut the cord that held them in, sliced them into several sections and put them in the steaming tureen. It was brought to me, a ladle served out the delicious consomme with Johan's balls intermingled. It was delicious. A chafing dish was moved to the side, his cock was severed, split down the center, placed on the sizzling dish and it was rolled toward me. Slowly rolled toward me. Next, Johan was sitting at the table eating the good food with my nuts and both our cocks were frying.......we had consumed each other, as in gruesome carnivorism as in sexual bonding we were a pair, a unit and with the smell of food.....the dream ended, I went back to a less disturbing sleep in which Johan was ‘eating me’ but in a more usual, pleasant fashion-strange, in dreams my balls had been shaved, a fact that seemed to please my Swiss consumer greatly as he licked them. I slept on.
 
A soft hand shook me gently, a kiss on my lips. My good eye opened as the cold drip from the bag continued. Johan had a smile that told me all was well, he was mine and our life together could commence. He rapidly shed his clothes and slid in on the other side of the bed. He wanted to snuggle, not a bad idea, but I needed to think. He was confused when I got out of bed, went into the sitting room and returned with three beers, some warm-ish coffee and some rolls. I  didn't even want to know what time it was, that was irrelevant just then. I was reasonably sure I was due at Pirelli for a meeting with......Umberto. Whether he was there or not was a question to be answered and Johan was the man to find out. Simply put, he was told to quietly go into the other bedroom, do a head count then come back to me.
 
His stride was between that of a tough cowboy and a gymnast doing floor exercises. Then, of course, there was the body worth watching no matter what it was doing.  Even I could hear the groans, slaps and other sounds that didn't suggest, but roared, they were still in there and still at it; Some day I needed to compliment him on his staying power. Johan was trying not to laugh when he returned fully aware that if I couldn't hear a bit, I had problems. No need to discuss that which was not my....our business.
 
I was still exhausted, still in bed and, for whatever reason, waiting for one last thing to happen before twilight. It did. Paulo, the room service waiter, wandered in attractively clad in a pair of bikini briefs and a bow tie; I thought of an all male strip show in Vegas. He headed for the bed but found his way blocked by a suddenly angered Swiss who explained, very explicitly, I was his man. Full Stop. That explained everything but, to be conversational, I asked where Larry was. It wasn't a question with much interest but, with the Larry's of the world, it's better to know than not know. The answer? He was in bondage in the boiler room, spread-eagled between two furnaces each generating heat. Did I want him back?
 
Not that I wanted him but somewhere in the back of my mind, he might have   a role to play in the future. What kind of role? Not sure, but he was necessary. Thinking as clearly as possible with a stream of cold water falling on my cock and balls, I told Paulo to finish up whatever he had in mind then return him to me. Didn't even bother to suggest there was money in it for him, just told him. The Paulo's of the world are motivated by money, particularly when it's cash in hand. He said to give him an hour, maybe a bit more, Larry was enjoying this, and they'd be back.
 
Johan asked if he wanted me to follow him, find out what was really going on but I waived him off that instead giving him a high dollar credit card, telling him to find an ATM-I knew they had them, I'd used one, and to get two thousand American dollars in Euros. He looked at me, I pulled him to me, kissed him and said, "You said, I'm your man, I trust you." The implication of trust and vocally acknowledging him made him shine as he went off in search of the money machine. In truth, I could have had him take a check to the Assistant Manager and they would have cashed it but I wanted him to realize that I really did trust him. If the topic of love came up, I'd tackle that one when it did. Desire, certainly part of love, had grabbed me by my cock and given it a sharp tug. Nothing I regretted but now some things had to be in proportion.
 
Johan and ATM's didn't see eye to eye-apparently he didn't know how or in what sequence to enter the numbers. Okay, just what I said I could do, wrote out a check, called the cashier's wicket, said it was on the way down, and, yes, give the proceeds to the Swiss Gentleman.
 
In the passage I heard the sound of a room service trolley which could have suggested Paulo save he was broiling Larry in the boiler room. My mistake, Larry was done so Paulo  put him on the lower tray of the trolley and delivered him covered with a table cloth, his clothes having shrunk off him in the heat and humidity; Paulo had them laid on on top of the trolley. Larry in minimal bikini underwear didn’t suggest sex so much as anorexia nervosa.
 
"A dove? Signore?" Tempted as I was to say just dump him on the floor, he was finally put on my bed to....cool down. I thanked Paulo and thought of sending him away but....he might be useful. Also in what looked like a leopard printed thong-and his bow tie-he could not reasonably be expected to return to his duties. Unless his duties included fucking guests which was not beyond the realm of possibility: It’s what I was going to send him off to do. In my quickly forming plan, I had a place for him as well. Ever the gracious host, I said if he could turn Larry to a position that he found useful to him, Larry was my gift to him, do what he wanted. And this is why I kept him around. Turns out that my suite had two adjacent bedrooms, one currently occupied by Umberto and Fabrizio and the other....empty but available if one had a pass key.
 
He could get his, it was just a matter of retrieving his clothes. He was told to go get it and, when the additional room became at one with my suite, he could have it, the bed in it and Larry on the bed. In fairly vulgar Italian, I told him, do what ya wanta then do it again also telling him that in my case there was a set of hand cuffs. Should something like that be of interest;He lit up like a slot machine and,  I confess it, I gave no thought to Larry’s fate save, if between screams and moans, he might learn some Italian.
 
I called downstairs to reception and suggested that I'd also need whatever the room number was that adjoined my suite in the other direction. Would there be a problem? There would not indeed reception asked if there was anything they might do for me....an offer I declined. I'd already had a lot done to and for me by the hotel, whether they knew it or not, some might say... almost too much.
 
Paulo and Johan arrived back at about the same moment with Johan not particularly pleased to see the waiter who was, Thank God, in his waiter outfit by then. Before it got out of hand, I grabbed Johan then carefully explained to him that Paulo was here as a sort of Nanny for Frank, that he would be with him, sleep with him do whatever with him. Apart from the usual niceties, we'd have nothing to do with them. Nothing. Nesuno. Further, as he may have noticed, I had no interest in Frank. None. In fact Umberto and I had done everything possible to avoid him-he must remember our arrival at the Trattoria (I still had the black eye as a reminder of the lengths I would go to in avoiding him.) The Swiss are famous for their neutrality and even Johan, whom I suspected had other blood in him, wasn't inclined to overt jealousy and, besides, whose bed was he sleeping in?
 
I needed to speak to Umberto, reasonably soon as there were some issues, some personal, some professional on which we needed to be in perfect harmony. It wasn't my intention to interfere with his rather sad, in my opinion, affair but that and some other things needed to be discussed. It was my plan to leave Milan without seeing the Tire people again, an area he would have to cover. Also I was going to arrange, for him, a happier resolution to his romantic life. Here was an area for Swiss diplomacy and, son of a gun, there was a man from Switzerland in bed with me. While I was thinking I failed to notice that he'd stripped and hopped back under the covers. Not that I wasn't glad to see him but, just now, and for the futures of an increasing number of people, he needed to be out of bed and fully clad. He didn't take that too well, probably assuming that life with me was going to be one  long sexual adventure. (while a great idea, not one that was destined to be precisely what he imagined) To try and even the score or not leave Johan as the only one with his nuts covered, I crawled out of bed, went to the walk-in closet and walked out fully dressed. I looked at him, put my arms out and said, "Better?"
 
He almost flew into my arms, tears, he thought I was throwing him out a sign of how fragile he was in some ways. Holding him close I said we, the two of us, Evan and Johan were going to help Fabrizio and Umberto, I didn't know how but hoped he could help me, after all, he knew Fabrizio....He was shaking his head, chin down, sympathy ready to come forth. Unlike himself, Fabrizio wasn't indentured, Moro, the Trattoria owner, owned him, he'd been sold to him as a very young child and he'd raised him. It was explained to me that nothing had made Moro happier than when Umberto had met Fabrizio and....they'd fallen in love. Not, he assured me, too quickly, Moro had been clever in that not every time Umberto came in was Fabrizio there. Other times, he'd slap both of them on the butt, tell them to go upstairs and use the spare room. I had already formed a pleasant opinion of my opposite number at the tire place but one of the conclusions I'd reached was that Umberto was naïve having been raised in a wealthy family where the Moros of the world and what they did couldn't exist. Which is why Umberto never noticed that the "spare room" doubled as a photography studio used to make videos of people like Umberto to be sold to a very limited audience of one:  Umberto.
 
My heart and my mind stiffened. I genuinely liked my mink eye lashed, tire selling friend and could see this scenario winding a long, long unhappy way. Fabrizio would be dangled in front of him on one side, on the other some very explicit photography work that would have wrecked him in business and socially in Milan. It was one thing to keep a boy or a girl, or both, on the side, it was quite another to appear in glorious technicolor for all the world to see. At least the one resident of the world who would pay. Sort of two for the price of one, the pictures stayed in a drawer and Fabrizio was his to use as he pleased....only one thing, when they fucked or did anything grossly sexual it had to be done in the "Spare Room" with the cameras rolling. Umberto was a very nice man, good at sex too, I knew from personal experience, but he didn’t deserve what here in America we call a “shake down” (I feel certain there’s an Italian term-after all the Mafia excelled at it-but I just didn’t know it. Yet.)
 
Not for nothing are the Swiss the go-to people when there’s any sort of crisis; Their ability to manage things is well known and I had a Swiss who, I felt, had not made his contribution to the happiness of others. He was happy, he had a man, surely he would want that for Umberto and Fabrizio.
 
It’s impossible to work rather closely in a place and not hear or see or both interesting activities of other employees or, for that, management. Johan was both smart as well as observant plus, I hoped, a little bit sneaky. Rolling him up, had him lean down, get me hard then hop on my lap, impaling himself but also putting his lean, strong body into my arms. I held him, quietly worked my cock up and down, put his head on my shoulder, let him relax then began to slowly ask what might seem, at first, innocent questions.
 
Or would have had the doorbell to the main suite not rung. A quick glance said “Clothing Optional” was the dress code and, just then, only Johan was, save fore his pants which could be quickly pulled up. completely covered. Didn’t even occur to me to wonder who might be at the door, everyone immediately concerned, in whatever ways, were accounted for. Johan, grasped the situation, headed for the door, slowly, giving me time to throw on sufficient clothing that did not suggest that A. I was still hungover and B. was fucking the gentleman who was about to open the door.
 
One thing about Assistant Managers, you can tell how serious their mission is by where on the ascending chain of Assistant Managers they are; I was relieved to see this was one who, usually, was deputed to shoe guests their rooms when they arrived and, subsequently, like now, drop by to see if there was anything, anything at all, the Comte Di Savoia Hotel could do for me? To which I could have added...”that you haven’t already done.” But he had not come alone, behind him were two more room service waiters, one pushing a cart set up for Champagne Service, the other another cart covered with tasties to go with Champagne. (Just on the moment telling him that, really, what I’d like was another six pack of beer and privacy didn’t seen a possible request.)
 
I let him do his cordiality, we love having you as our guest, anything you want, ring me, the presentation of a card with a number to call, a bowl of flowers….and then they all bowed their way out. Rather too quickly Johan slammed the door.
 
I dislike Caviar-there was a large bowl of it with the Champagne and, as mentioned, beer not another sort of bubbly would be more welcome. Without even checking I felt it wouldn’t be among the gifted goodies.
 
Again the doorbell. Again Johan. This, however, was no friendly representative of the hotel, or any place, bringing symbols of their pleasure, edibles, potables….this was Moro,owner of the trattoria where, until too recently, Johan and Fabrizio had been sort of employed. Johan was apprenticed but Fabrizio, currently occupying a bed in a another part of my suite, had been...well...I’m avoiding the word ‘slave’ but we could bandy about ‘indentured’ with no time limit.
 
He didn’t seem surprised to see Johan but said his business was with me. (I would have put money on that idea.) Invited in, Johan was polite, to take a seat in the lounge, he was told I’d be with him directly...and I was. Wasn’t it fortunate to have the hospitality of the hotel available? Offered Champagne, Caviar, his selection of finger food, I started the conversation by thanking him for his generosity in the matters of Johan and Umberto.
 
It would seem his generosity wasn’t so generous as I’d thought. Indeed, when it came to Fabrizio, the monies he’d been paid he saw as a sort of rental fee that did have an expiring time. I expressed surprise as that was not my understanding. Just what mine was, well, this wasn’t a time to expand on that. There was not, I assumed, a way to get enough Champagne into him to ‘soften’ him as to rentals versus hire/purchase. Not threatening but definite in his parting remarks, it was ‘suggested’ that when I left Milan, a ‘souvenir’, namely Fabrizio, be left behind. Johan? He could go back to Switzerland and work on his bodybuilding; Apparently he hadn’t shown much proficiency as a waiter. On his way out he mentioned that he assumed I would be leaving ‘soon’ and he wished me a safe trip. Somehow the word ‘safe’ hung near the chandelier like an ax.
 
“That for him”. I was surprised to see Paulo, naked, but giving our departing...visitor the infamous Italian fist in the air with the opposing hand retraining the arm in the elbow. Seems Paulo had once been employed by Moro which gave him some inside tracks as to the actual ins and outs at the Trattoria. Spitting annoyance, he had an answer, oh yes, he did, one that would have Moro on his own dirty floor being fucked by a selection of nice looking men who, just at that moment, didn’t know this opportunity was about to come their way. He needed a phone and two minutes of privacy. Granted.
 
I tapped on Umberto’s door, stuck my head in-fortunately they were sleeping, and told him that his presence as well as that of his companion were required in the sitting room NOW.
 
More or less covered, dressed would be an overstatement, we waited for Paulo, whom I was beginning to like more and more, to return. All sunny Italian smiles, he’d spoken to Donato, nothing to it, had it in hand. All we had to do was pack a bag with things suitable for the beach and away we’d go. I stopped to wonder where?
 
Rome. Oh.