On the Rapido to Naples, the sun blotched fields of Campania streak past as relentlessly as the daydreams of sultry adolescents that flicker through my mind. I am determined this trip will be a new beginning. I place a capstone on the pyramid of angry resolutions that have plagued me since my break up with Peter. Though my anger has subsided, I am left picking over the debris, annoyed and humiliated at my credulity, left pondering whether he ever really loved me. Anticipating my time in Naples, I think about how and what I want. Vivid fantasies startle me from the rail-induced stupor. There will be time for adventures, for wandering sultry back streets and suburbs immersed in the afternoon siesta. I will explore crumbling Baroque churches and Rococo palaces. I will prowl the beaches, wander Posillipo, cavort in the surf, have my pick of scugnizzi (in my fantasy they are all assembled from the photographs of Von Gloeden). I have several months with little to do officially except visit archives. Ironically, the assignment is occasioned by the discovery of a painting, possibly by Caravaggio, a portrait of a Roman street boy dressed as St. John the Baptist. Any mention of this "find" in church or notarial records of the time will authenticate the picture and send its price into the stratosphere. My budget is generous and friends have arranged the use of their vacant apartment.
This is my first visit to Naples and Enzo is the first person I meet. He seems to float towards me across the glassy floor of a dimly lit corridor in the Stazione Mergellina. At three in the afternoon it is deserted. His face is blurred, my vision dimmed by the hot white daylight behind him. My cock is soft but swollen, restless and obtuse after long confinement on the train. Smiling as he approaches, he brushes past me and rubs the back of his hand across my hip. Dragging my two suitcases I turn and follow him back into the dark corridor. When we are practically alone he turns abruptly and faces me. He is so close that I catch a scent of his home: a delicate blend of garlic, cooking oil and coffee. It lends him a complex, alluring dimension, both familiar and foreign.
"Come va" His way of speaking seems guileless enough yet it is radiant with sexual wisdom. Without asking, he takes one of my bags. To an observer in this echoing hallway we might be old friends, relatives even, meeting at the station. I give him the address, his brow furrows with concentration, a gesture which momentarily suspends his assumed air of maturity, of being a grown-up. I realize he is very young but not a child: eighteen or nineteen. I explain why I am in Naples, describing my profession as storico (historian), an admission which generates another wrinkling between his glossy eyebrows. Enzo offers to take me in his car. Walking beside him I contemplate the texture of his skin, his dark walnut hair, and excitement mounts in every part of my body.
We set out with a violent lurch in his tinny Fiat Cinquecento and almost immediately begin to drive up the winding road that climbs the steep hillside behind the station. Having studied the map of Naples for months before my trip, I know we are going in the wrong direction. He might be a thief, I think, but am reassured by a dog-eared copy of I Promessi Sposi on the shelf under the dashboard. In the afternoon heat most of the streets are empty. We stop on a curve and he adroitly parks the tiny car between enormous huge garbage skips. There is a strong smell of rotting vegetables. He reaches for my cock. While he undoes my belt and unbuttons my fly, his mouth is on my cock through the cloth of my jeans. By the time he extracts it from my pants I have that rubbery kind of erection that seems as though it will never go down. It makes me feel enormous as he stuffs it into his mouth with a muffled groan of pleasure. He lets it plug his throat for what seems a dangerously long time then comes up panting for air, smiling.
There isn't much room for maneuvering in the Fiat 500 but he manages to pull my jeans down around my thighs and get his hand between my legs. He begins gently squeezing my balls. All the while my cock is wedged down his throat and the buildup of saliva feels like lava; it seeps down through my pubic hair around my balls, running onto the seat. I reassure myself from time to time that the street is still empty and begin working my hands over Enzo's body, feeling his smooth muscular back, his hard defined chest, his nipples like hard raspberries. He begins sucking me in earnest with long, noisy, wet lunges -in the stillness of this August afternoon a listener might think someone was eating ripe plums. The sound seems deafening. I bend over his back and breathe the smell of his hair, a mixture of Palmolive and warm fresh milk. I begin to climax from some point just behind my now extremely sensitized hot asshole -an almost painful orgasm that sends jets of semen straight down his throat. We clean up with tissues that Enzo extracts from under the dashboard, behind the Manzoni. He wants to move on. When I ask if he wants me to suck him off he says, "Later" with a smile that sends a chill of anticipation down my sweaty spine.
The portiere in Via Caracciolo has to be roused from his nap and his humor is none too good when he opens the door. I explain about being the Professore Americano who is to stay in the Morganthal's apartment. Enzo shows native discretion and lets me do all the talking even as we are accompanied by the grumpy portiere to the top floor in a tiny, birdcage of an elevator. Wheezing and groaning he leads us up another floor to the superattico and lets us into the apartment. He gloats disdainfully, knowingly, as he hands over the keys. I thank him with a generous tip, the miracle cure for cynicism in Naples.
As he surveys the apartment Enzo's brown eyes are focused beyond what he actually sees. There is an inaccessible locus in the complexity that assembles in his expression. He assesses the apartment, its occupants, their economic circumstances and all his preconceptions of an America he has never visited. I explain that my friends are academics, a young married couple both writing theses on obscure Neapolitan painters. I begin to explain Misha and Andrew's social background, their prosperous professional parents, trust funds, prestigious colleges. I wonder how to continue, as often happens with Italians they are puzzled by my tendency to overelaborate. Something more directly physical is in order. I kiss him. I can see flecks of green in his brown eyes: ("come un ruscello turbato" I will tell him one day and he will reply, laughing, that only an American would talk like that). He reads my intentions better than I do but gently declines them. He suggests I get comfortable in the new place before anything else.
Enzo opens the shutters and the light flooding the white walled apartment is almost painfully bright. The Morgenthal's penthouse consists of a very large living room, a bedroom and a kitchen. It has been carved out of the space that had formerly been the laundry facilities or servants quarters to the aristocratic Neapolitans who had built the palazzo and whose descendants, in all probability, now live below on the piano nobile. The apartment has terraces on two levels. The lower one completely secluded behind the high building cornice, is a roof garden full of oleander, jasmine, roses and geraniums. The higher terrace raised over the roof of the apartment, is reached by an iron stair. From here the city and the bay are spread out in a spectacular panorama. There is a smell of salt and diesel fuel from the waterfront only a couple of streets away. In the distance, the public beach reverberates with shrill collective mirth.
When I ask Enzo if he wants a drink, he suggests coffee and we begin rummaging in the kitchen. Extracting an espresso pot from a cabinet, he dives into the tiny refrigerator as though he is certain of findng coffee. He is correct and we drink the syrupy espresso out of tiny white porcelain cups while standing on the high terrace. Enzo points out the hydrofoil arriving from Capri and the luxurious yacht of a Saudi billionaire at anchor. His forehead, now exposed by the arrival of a sea breeze, shows an uneven hairline, like the border of a forest. "This is a good wind, he tells me "-- maestrale, Il respiro del'sole." His brow is softly, almost imperceptibly grooved. In the brilliant light, with the city distanced, reduced to a dull bawling, I can think of nothing but Enzo's mouth, and the prospect of his cock rising to meet mine.
On the lower terrace there is garden furniture. We go down, he is behind me and I turn, finding his crotch at face level. I bite his cock through the cotton trousers and he laughs. By the time we get to the bottom of the stairs we are both undressing and I see him naked for the first time. His body is not classically perfect. There is an appealing lack of symmetry in the relation of chest to arms, his waist is a little short. His skin glows like a lamp held high, in its light I feel exposed and defenseless. He is more Renaissance bronze than Greek kouros: his lithe body still retaining an adolescent fleshiness. The hair on his legs is soft and curly. Around his uncircumcised cock he has a thick growth of glistening black-brown hair that becomes a silky rivulet forming at the base of his abdomen and vanishing between his pectorals. His face is handsome: masculine and earthy, with a poised sober sweetness. The expression in his eyes now is so compelling that I want him close enough to keep them out of sight. His eyes see more in me than I am willing to see in myself in this moment.
I take his cock in my mouth thereby stopping him midway on the stairs. His clothes are strewn behind him. He bends to caress my head but almost loses his balance on the wedge shaped step. Gripping the handrail on either side he offers me his body with inebriate obscenity, like a drunken satyr on an ancient vase. Pre-cum begins to fill my mouth -it tastes slightly of anise. My hands are moving over his entire body though I notice a slight hesitation when I spread the cheeks of his ass. I direct my attention now to his balls, gently jerking him off while I tongue them, taking them both into my mouth. From below I easily lick the area behind his scrotum and this excites him. "Girati" I say ("turn around" one of the sexiest words in Italian). He has trouble on the stair and must hold on to the central post round which the stairs descend. His back, ass, thighs are magnificent. I gently spread his cheeks to expose his asshole. It is pink, clean and surrounded by delicate curls of hair - miniature versions of those on his head. I kiss and lick the area around his tightly clenched hole savoring his muskiness mixed with the faint odor of Palmolive soap. Finally I lay siege to the center with my tongue and he sighs "Sto per venire" I'm going to come. His familiar tone of voice seems an even greater intimacy than the presence of my tongue up his ass. He comes violently, his sphincter clenched open and shut like the shutter of a camera making successive exposures. Semen splashes down among the climbing geraniums. As he recovers, Enzo is affectionate and murmurs appreciatively. He fondles my angry erection and explains that he must leave but asks if he can see me later. Reluctantly I let him go. It will be better when he is more interested. He leaves tucking the telephone number into his change pocket. We kiss while waiting for the elevator. Left alone in the apartment I unpack and explore, the apartment and my own reactions to Enzo. Eventually I collapse into the waiting bed.
The telephone awakens me from deep sleep. Completely disoriented, I struggle to identify my surroundings, the source of the ringing. It is Enzo, apologetic for having disturbed me. He suggests meeting at a nearby cafe. I am famished now and must rush to shower and shave. The cafe is not crowded but I can tell at once that it is not the local "family" cafe. The clientele is divided between ragazzi di vita, the Italian euphemism for hustlers and one or two older gay men. Enzo is seated alone and rises to kiss me familiarly on both cheeks.
I imagine he has decided to make me family. This is a quality I have come to notice in Italy: you are admitted to the "family" or not. At Enzo's suggestion I drink a syrupy, mildly alcoholic Aperol which might have been perfect to soothe a sore throat but does nothing to assuage my hunger. He suggests a nearby restaurant commenting that he will only look on as he has already eaten at home.
The restaurant is large, noisy and popular. He suggests I try the timballo which is the evenings specialit . We order wine. The elderly waiter shuffles back and forth carrying bread, water, and finally a carafe of wine. He is as attentive and serious as an altar boy. Enzo, flushed with happiness looks on approvingly as I crunch breadsticks. In the warm light of a shaded lamp on our table we seem to be set apart from the rest of the restaurant.
He talks excitedly about Naples and of all the things he wants to show me. I can see the "sights" on my own he laughs, but he will show me il vero Napoli. And beyond, he might even take me to Caserta to see the Reggia, the grandiose palace of the Bourbon King. Then with an impish grin he says he might take me to the Scuola da Ballo, the Dancing School.
Before I have time to question him, the waiter has placed a steaming plate of pasta in front of me. The odor of cheese, browned breadcrumbs and nutmeg obliterates everything else for the moment.
After dinner we walk the Lungomare back to the apartment. Night life is beginning and Enzo is delighted to be my tutor. He points out the stream of cars with single occupants that slow down as they pass. Hustlers lean against the railings and their prospective clients observe, assess and then walk on. The night is warm and the cooler air from the sea has begun to form itself into a musky, salty breeze. Anxious to be back in the apartment I ask Enzo to come up and he accepts. When I question him about having to be back home he laughs and says that he is free as a bird tonight because his parents have gone to the country. His parents still have some land "'le nostre terre" he says, a little pompously, near Caserta. They must go and see that the contadini are looking after things properly.
"That sounds very feudal."
"You wouldn't understand. There is nothing like it in America."
"In the South there was. It was called slavery."
He bristled. "I wish I were as well off as my parents contadini."
At the door of the palazzo we find the portiere outside with one of his cronies. They eye us sharply as we approach and, I imagine their gossip at our expense. We retreat into the building covering our backs with a protective screen of buona seras. I have difficulty in maintaining the light banter with Enzo as the antique elevator creaks its way to the top floor. All I can think about is getting his clothes off and getting my cock into the voluptuous little ass that I had taken so much pleasure in rimming that afternoon.
Once inside the apartment I waste no time in steering Enzo towards the bedroom. At first he seems a little reluctant. Our conversation about his vaguely aristocratic origins has distracted him, usurped his instinctual sexiness. I insist on undressing him while exploring his mouth with my tongue. I open his pants and they slip down around his knees. His cock is hard and protrudes in his fine cotton briefs. I slip my hands under the elastic and grip his buttocks.. This seems to turn him on, so I spread the cheeks wide and let one of my fingers trace the outline of his puckered hole. He breathes more heavily and our kissing has become intense. Moving onto the bed I remove his shoes and pants while he opens my belt, undoes the buttons on my jeans and releases my hard cock. For the first time he takes my cock in his mouth and I marvel at his expertise. He is a born cocksucker. His tongue caresses the head, darting frequently into the slit and then slides on lubricated lips down the shaft while saliva flowing freely allows the head to lodge in his throat. He is consumed with doing this, and I am amazed and excited that he should be so proficient already. I try to oblige by taking his cock down my throat but cannot resist wandering beyond into the area behind his balls and almost reach his asshole. Again, the odor of Palmolive soap, his evening session on the bidet. His work on my cock has now become so pleasurable that I find it difficult to concentrate on anything else. I tell him to stop -he is close to making me come. My goal is fucking him and I straddle his chest while he licks my balls and raises his legs towards me, giving complete access to his ass. Bending forward my tongue flicks across his hole and I can hear him give a muffled gasp. I point and harden my tongue and try to penetrate his contracted sphincter. He relents and I begin to fuck him gently with my tongue. This seems to turn him on sufficiently to make him cross the frontier of his attention to my crotch so that he begins licking me behind the balls and near my asshole. I know this will bring me off very soon so I lie down next to him and try to turn him on his side. Simultaneously I try to visualize the location of the fresh tube of lubricant that I have brought with me. Enzo resists and I tell him I want to fuck him. His response is an unequivocal "No." Not wanting to make an issue of this I content myself with inserting my now slippery cock between his legs. He participates completely, shoving his tight butt against me and moaning softly while jerking himself off. This brings us both to orgasm almost immediately and we lie panting in each others arms.
"You don't like being fucked?" I feel I should bring this up before the intimacy of this moment has dissolved. "E troppo presto" He whispers, "too soon" and as consolation, twists his head back to kiss me.
Within two weeks we were lovers. When I think back over the process I cannot remember exactly when or how it all happened. It seems so natural for us to be together, as though it had always been so. Enzo is with me constantly, when he is free, sometimes only for a few hours between his family and school engagements. He will sometimes arrive early in the morning carrying his schoolbooks, wanting sex. He takes my semi-soft cock in his mouth and I luxuriate in its snakelike transformation down his throat. He likes having me suck his cock through the always candid white bikini briefs delicately scented by laundry bleach. I will bite and fondle his cock, nip at his balls and slide my tongue under the cloth to rim him until a telltale spot of moisture heralds the crucial phase before orgasm. His favorite position at these morning sessions is straddling my head as he stands next to the bed. In the evenings we dine in a restaurant, usually outdoors, and then return to the apartment to have sex. Night after night I wonder if Enzo will let me fuck him but he always wriggles out of it, literally and figuratively. I never stop trying. The existence of Enzo's unfucked ass drives me wild. In spite of our twice daily love-making I will find myself overcome with desire while examining notarial records in a dusty library and in order to restore my concentration will have to go to the men's room and masturbate. My fantasy is invariably that perhaps tonight will be the night.
The mysteries of Naples remain mysterious. Enzo is all I want and he makes sure I have no time for anything else. When I express interest in the topography of gay Naples he will drive past places where transvestites gather or suggest we have after-dinner coffee at the train station where he points out the street boys and seasoned hustlers. He talks of the parks and the activity that centers around the U.S. Navy base He seems to know a great deal about the gay scene but not to have experienced it himself. As to his informants, his sources of information, he reveals nothing. He never speaks of friends or previous lovers.
Enzo loves to talk about his childhood and his family. I am enthralled and ask questions about relationships, details of events, conversations. I particularly like hearing of his numerous early sexual experiences which he recounts with great intensity. Sometimes these turn me on so powerfully that we will have to find some place to have quick sex: in a park or in his car, once in the men's room in the Museo Nazionale. He delights in his power to excite me. One of the stories which he tells over and over again (a fact that neither of us avow) is of an older teenage playmate who had sucked his cock while they were isolated from the rest of the players in a game of Hide and Seek. This activity had been repeated soon after when they played again, but this time the bigger, stronger boy had tried to fuck Enzo as well. When Enzo began crying, he stopped, but the two boys never spoke again.
Our first month is blissful. The ten-year age difference seems perfect. Our cultural differences allow him the distance from his world, his family especially, to be able to think of himself as "gay." My experience had been that many Italian men liked having sex with other men but considered themselves completely "normal." Many of the men I had met in Rome were married with families. He professes his love frequently and ardently, teaching me the distinction in Italian between Volere bene (in English "to like") and amare ("to love"). My stubbornness in using amare, is greatly to his amusement, even though he explains that you "love" family and possibly your country but you "like" a lover because you have chosen him. You have no choice but to love your family and country: a lover, he explains, is different. The idea that I am Enzo's choice gives me great pleasure. I am proud to be seen with him, to be identified as his lover.
If Enzo's reluctance to let me fuck him persists, his proficiency at fucking me increases by leaps and bounds. Thinking about this makes me uneasy, until we are doing it. On every occasion I give in to his urging as though for the first and last time. His favorite position is to manouevre me on to my side while he kisses my neck, massages my nipples and plays with my balls. Often we will wind up in the reversed position, with me about to fuck his delectably puckered asshole, but invariably he will grease up my throbbing cock and encourage me to fuck him between the legs.
We sometimes have arguments, especially about my calling him at home or his cancelling appointments at the last minute. As we grow easier and more sure of one another we can broach the subject of our sexual desire for others. The first time we actually do anything about it is at the neighborhood cafe where we we are viewed with curiosity. On this evening we notice two men seated at a nearby table. Thinking they look straight out of a Pasolini film I decide they are beyond my experience. Enzo reads my thoughts and his disarming, pacifying smile announces: "They're sexy, aren't they. This is something we can share." I am confused and a little overwhelmed by the speed which the situation advances. After a couple of words, an exchange of smiles and peremptory greetings they are sitting at our table. Something about Enzo's manner, his calm, his mood of playful sexiness, puts me at ease and I can feel excitement mounting in anticipation of what might happen.
Back at the apartment (it is night and the prying portiere is not to be seen) Enzo takes over as host and does the "onori di casa," showing our guests the view and offering drinks and coffee. I am still apprehensive, thinking they seem rough. We leave them on the terrace and while making coffee in the kitchen I ask Enzo if he thinks it is ok He nods reassuringly and tells me reassuringly that they are ragazzi per bene whom he has seen around.
One of the visitors, Sandro, is tall and solidly built. His head of tight curls that makes him look like a Mannerist angel out of a painting by Parmigianino. His is a completely natural masculinity with a captivating earthiness subjacent to his recently acquired urbanity. He explains that he is currently doing interior decoration and shows his calloused hands as proof. He has scrubbed himself after work but vestiges of white paint still cling to his fingernails and a fragment of plaster is enmeshed in his curls. I detect his interest in Enzo. Calogero, Sandro interjects that he likes to be called Cal, is a co-worker and definitely the less extrovert of the two. Sandro has established a style of mild deprecatory banter in Cal's regard. Cal has a small hard body and a delicate, classical head. He might easily fit into the Roman armor whose small size so surprised me at the museum. His eyes are black and gleam with inborn haughtiness. Though not as robustly sexy as Sandro I suspect he is the more interesting of the two. He gives nothing away, however, taking his cues from Sandro. Sipping his coffee he follows intently our every word of small talk.
Seated on the terrace sofa with Sandro between us, it is hard to know what Enzo and I should do. He and I have momentarily lost contact and the situation is strange for me. Sandro brings about a certain resolution by putting his hands on our thighs and laughingly suggesting we all make love together. I declare myself willing and so does Enzo. Cal feigns indifference and agrees to follow us into the bedroom. We take off our clothes and pile onto the bed where Sandro falls on top of Enzo kissing him passionately. Not wanting to leave Cal out of things I put my arm around his shoulder and kiss him gently on the neck. He is awkward and unyielding at first, obviously aroused to judge by his erection. He allows me to kiss him on the mouth but I can tell that he is watching Sandro's glorious buttocks as he writhes about on top of Enzo. I wonder if he is interested in me at all.
In an effort at integrating the proceedings I shift closer to Sandro and Enzo so that they aren't tempted to get too exclusively involved. I slip down between Sandro's muscular thigns and begin exploring this exciting landscape with my hands and tongue. Sandro's cock is lined up with Enzo's, sandwiched between their stomachs. I alternate massaging and licking their balls, with special attention to Sandro's big loose sac. I make an exploratory run up through the crevice of his hard buttocks and reassure myself that he is clean. (Does everyone in Naples use Palmolive -I wonder giddily that it might be good to have shares in the company). Cal is now lying next to Sandro and Enzo: Sandro's big arm around his shoulders, drawing him into a three-way kiss. I give Cal's cock the benefit of my now very hot and wet mouth. It is like iron -almost unpleasantly so, uncircumcised, the skin is stretched almost to breaking point and the head emerges angry and bright pink. He is streaming with pre-cum which lubricates his cock. I go easily, afraid he might come too quickly.
When I move round to the other side of Sandro, Enzo turns toward me, his eyes closed in ecstasy, and kisses me long and deeply. His mouth tastes unfamiliar and I can smell Sandro's pungent odor beginning to dominate the scene. It is very sexy. Enzo extricates himself from under Sandro who turns on his back. Enzo and I both begin sucking his cock and balls. Sandro kneels up on the bed to give us a broader area to work on. I go round back and bury my face in his ass. His asshole is as muscular as the rest of him. He distends it to allow my tongue to enter but when Enzo squeezes his big cockhead down his throat it makes Sandro close his sphincter, forcing my tongue out. He is very excited now and our combined attentions have brought him close to orgasm. I notice that Cal has dissappeared and this distracts me. Reluctantly I get up from the bed to see what he is up to, leaving Enzo and Sandro alone.
The bathroom is empty and Cal is nowhere to be seen in the apartment. I step out onto the terrace and find him stretched out on the sofa. In the darkness it seems he is smiling and in answer to my Come Va he tells me he finds the "porcherie" in the bedroom not to his liking. I sit on the edge of the sofa and caress his chest and defined abdomen. .His cock immediately snaps to attention, so erect that it will be difficult to suck as it adheres to his lower stomach. When I begin running my tongue over the shiny surface of Cal's cock he shudders and grips the armrest behind him with both hands. My instinct is to make him come quickly so that I will be able to join Enzo and Sandro in the bedroom. Cal puts one leg up over the back of the sofa so I can lick his balls and then I travel down to the area below them before making a preliminary foray to his tiny puckered asshole. Cal's hard small buttocks excite me and the idea of fucking him begins to take over my imagination. I wonder if I can manage without lubricant and begin pushing saliva into and around his hole. This drives him wild and I can see threads of pre-cum flipping into the air off his vivacious bouncing cock. Moving into position between his legs I start to wet my cock. I have a larger head than most and it is sometimes a problem at penetration. Cal knows now that I am trying to fuck him and I can see the conflict on his face. I whisper "Let me do it" and try to smile reassuringly. He hesitates and I move up over him and kiss him gently on the lips. My cock presses against his and I can feel him yielding, his lips parting in excitement. I pry his mouth open with my tongue. His expression has changed and he seems more trusting, his eyes have widened into a childlike gaze. I can feel his cock pushing imperatively against me. It is now or never I think and move into position with his legs spread. I begin slipping my cockhead into his hole which is incredibly tight. He closes his eyes and grimaces. I edge forward -spit is not an ideal lubricant but my cock has begun to ooze and this makes it easier. Another move, some gentle pressure and my head slips past the sphincter. Cal bends forward to stop me but I remain still and reassure him gently. I am afraid to play with his cock because he seems so close to orgasm. I remain in his ass and for the first time am aware of the commingled moans coming from the bedroom. It sounds as though a heroic orgasm is in progress. Cal moves slightly in an attempt to take more of my cock up his ass. He is clearly in ecstasy with his eyes closed and his mouth half-open. The position is uncomfortable so I gently manoeuvre him around on my cock until he is on his side and we are both lying down. This operation has allowed my cock to enter him completely and I am aware of nothing else but this boy's compact body and my cock buried in his hot rectum. I begin to fuck him thoroughly, taking my cock right out passed the sphincter and then re-entering him. I do this faster and faster until we both come. I lie holding him tightly, he is silent. I wonder if he has fallen asleep. He says "Grazie" at the edge of audibility and I kiss him on the neck.
I hear running water from the bathroom and imagine that Enzo and Sandro have come up for air. Enzo is alone in the bedroom lying with his face turned to the wall. I lean down to kiss him on the nape of the neck and he stirs.
"Did you have fun?" He asks me sleepily.
"What about you?"
In the living room Cal and Sandro are talking in an exaggeratedly normal way. I protest that they should stay and have a drink but they insist that they must be home. We exchange telephone numbers and kiss goodnight. In the bedroom Enzo is lying with his ass raised provocatively on a pillow his head turned and resting on one arm. I linger at kissing the instep of his foot and suck on his toes one by one. When I move up his leg my lips and tongue make contact with the raspy hair of his lower legs before reaching the oasis of his inner thighs. The hairless skin here is smooth and fine-textured. He groans as I move up towards his ass. Flecking his balls lightly with my tongue I begin exploring his beguiling ass crack. It is no longer clean. But the sexy, musky odour is not sweat nor even the faint smell of shit. I wonder if Sandro might have come between his legs and in his crack. Spreading his cheeks to get a better look I can see that his asshole is pink and distended. Sandro fucked him! I am sure of it. My tongue confirms what my eyes can see: Sandro has fucked his ass and left his load inside. Enzo has not even bothered to clean up. I am angered but also excited by the erotic complexity of this situation, and I can sense Enzo's excitement as well. He goes down on my cock, sucking hungrily, taking the head down his throat so far that it makes him gag. I turn him around so I can suck him, we are both at the edge of orgasm. My head burrows between his legs and I plunge my tongue into his asshole. It is relaxed and welcoming and I guess the time is ripe to get my cock in there as well. But Enzo has other ideas. He slides out of our sixty-nine position and comes up behind me, pushing me down on the bed over the pillows. His cock stabs at my unprepared sphincter and finally plunges right in, his arms pinning me to the bed. He fucks me viciously and at length until we both come.
In the days that follow I bring up our "orgy." Enzo is taciturn and evasive. "Yes I enjoyed it." is all he will say. He admits that Sandro and Cal are simpatici. To my question about whether we should do it again he answers curtly "Let's see." I want to ask him why, if he claims never to have been fucked and not to like it, did he let Sandro fuck him. I imagine that the bigger stronger Sandro might have semi-raped him but it doesn't seem like Enzo to have allowed this, at least not without a struggle. I decide to let the matter drop, especially as any mention of the evening causes Enzo to pout, tainting our time together with an uncharacteristic melancholy.
Enzo and I plan a long weekend out of Naples during his school vacation. He is left in the care of his beloved Nonna, a maternal Aunt who has lived with the family from his infancy and dotes on him. His parents are seeing to "their land" which leaves Enzo free to do as he pleases for several weeks. As far as they are concerned he is going on a school outing. He suggests we go to Caserta as part of our four-day jaunt, an hour's drive from Naples.
While Caserta is best known for its magnificent Reggia, the great Bourbon country palace, for many its name recalls the Army base nearby and the institution of Military Service, mandatory for Italian men. For Enzo and many a young conscript recruit at the Army base it is also the city of the notorious Scuola da Ballo or Dancing School. Enzo has never been there but has heard of it from friends and we are both intrigued.
Our arrival in Caserta on Friday morning gives us time to find an anonymous modern hotel just outside of town and then investigate the town itself. Caserta is little more than the junction of two avenues and a network of narrower back streets. We decide to reconnoitre the centro for the Dance School and find it almost at once. We enter to inquire about the "lessons" and encounter a distinguished man in his fifties. He is friendly and offers to show us the theatre. Thrusting forward his hand he declaims "De' Crescenzi" in the manner of Italian aristocrats. In response we mumble our names and follow him. The "school" is actually a small Rococco theatre built in the nineteenth century in what was then an old- fashioned and eclectic roccoco style. It was used for opera and is now occasionally visited by theatre or opera companies. I notice a poster announcing performances of L'Amico Fritz and Manon Lescaut by the Teatro Lirico di Trieste but it is several years out of date. The theatre itself is in the classical Italian style: a horseshoe shaped auditorium with tiers of boxes lining the walls and plush gilded chairs arranged in rows on the orchestra floor. Candelabras carry swags of cut glass which when lit only dimly illuminate the gilded nymphs, cupids and satyrs that stare blankly, blissfully into space. Signor De' Crescenzi explains that he is the hereditary owner, the fourth generation of a theatrical and artistic family. His great-grandfather, a nobleman with large estates in the Molise region had ruined himself over an opera singer whom he had heard in Naples and then followed north as far as St. Petersburg. She herself had been Swedish. When her career faltered she agreed to marry him and live in Italy where he tried to relaunch her career. He had built the theatre in Caserta for her comeback but it was too late and the provincial audiences ("alas, they were the same as today's" he emphasized with an expression of disdain) wanted high notes and trills. His great grandmother had not been the ordinary "canary." Her portrait, prominently displayed outside the auditorium, shows her costumed as Norma. She had been a great beauty whatever her vocal gifts.
Signor De' Crescenzi treats us with gentleness and unexaggerated refinement. His devotion to the theatre is obvious from his careful and affectionate account ot the theatre's history. He hopes to revive opera performances in "such an acoustic jewel." When I mention the Scuola da Ballo he turns to me as though to emphasize his savoir-faire: "Ah, well that is a different sort of cultural event. Dancing is an invaluable social skill -non‚ vero?"
We reach a door on the second floor emblazoned with large gold letters: Salone Ristoro. The proprietor seems especially proud of these rooms, which, considering the modest size of the theatre, are disproportionately grandiose. To my comments he explains that the social events expected to accompany opera performances were often more important than the operas themselves. Intervals between acts were long and promenades were obligatory. The first of three reception rooms, linked to the others by large double doors, occupies almost the entire height of the building: its impression of lofty elegance is achieved by the use of painted ceilings, mirrored walls and a large scale parquet floor. It was the perfect theatre lobby. Who would not have felt the desire to swagger at seeing their reflection in such mirrors. A casual observer might not be aware of the additional rooms that open out of this lobby as they occupy an area to one side of the theatre above the adjacent buildings.
Signor De Crescenzi opens the doors of the adjoining room which is round with a domed ceiling. A gallery circles the room at half height and can only be reached from one of the upper floors of the theatre. This room has no other function than its charm and the opportunity for a trompe l'oeil ceiling complete with lattice, vines and fluttering songbirds.
"This room and the one after it were kept locked and disused for almost one hundred years." Signor De'Crescenzi tells us. "I had them restored when I inherited the building." The last room is a long oval with a double gallery that can be reached by a narrow double stair. As it is entirely mirrored the actual volume of the room is deceptive. The old lead glass has begun to darken unevenly and this gives it a cloudlike quality, as though a haze fills the space, dulling the lustre of gold and crystal. A bar complete with espresso machine and rows of gleaming wine glasses suggests a more practical, contemporary use. A grand piano, shrouded and stilled, is pushed against one wall. At the end of the tour we thank our guide and inquire about the Dancing School session on Sunday night. "Anytime from eight o'clock on." he tells us with an imperceptible little bow.
The ancient tradition of same-sex dancing in Southern Italy is probably familiar to many non- Italians from films. In a society where separation of the sexes has always been strictly observed, the practice of intimate, affectionate same-sex relationships has not only been accepted but is actively encouraged. Pre-marital sex and its concomitant risk of illegitimacies (in pre-condom days) wrought social and economic disaster. Friendships between men are allowed wide latitude in Southern Italy. Homosexuality, although condemned by the Church (along with all sex outside marriage) was and is considered a minor sin -a mere peccadillo, a sin of the flesh to which all humankind is prone. Male sexual urges are regarded as protean forces which can be expected to include both men and women in its perspective. Thus there was nothing out of the ordinary about a Dance School that had evening sessions exclusively for men. That this "School" was located in a town with a barracks harboring hundreds of eighteen to twenty-four year olds without girlfriends or funds and possessing prodigious libidinal energy would not have come to the attention of the "authorities" as it might have elsewhere.
Wandering the central streets of Caserta, we watch young military recruits, paired off romantically, innocently, immersed in each other like lovers. We find a trattoria, old- fashioned and reassuring. Enzo becomes serious when considering the menu: food is like religion with him, brooking no discussion. In the evening he will never eat pasta which he insists can only be digested properly at the midday meal. He is scandalized by my ordering lasagna. Several glasses of wine render us carefree and festive and we decide to investigate the Cin‚ma Eros which we had observed earlier.
The theatre is full of militari. The smell of cheap Italian tobacco and stale body odor is strong but not entirely unpleasant. We find seats and almost immediately Enzo goes off to the men's room. The film appears to be a Swedish sex education documentary. The camera is relentless in exploring the tallow hued bodies of the protagonists as they move dispassionately through a Scandinavian Kama Sutra. The young conscript next to me is crazed with exitement and his leg falls against mine. I increase the pressure from my side and he responds so I put my hand on his thigh. The screen is filled with the image of a clinically lit coitus a tergo. In the pursuit of sexual truth and the glory of science, the young Swede's asshole can be seen opening and closing like a blind eye as he mechanically drives in and out of the spread-legged blonde beneath him. My hand finds the hard cock in my neighbour's trousers and he lets out an aspirated groan. I hesitate to continue as the theatre is so full. I beckon him to follow and make my way to the darkness in the back of the theatre. We embrace, although he is careful to avoid anything like a kiss. He is small and wiry and keeps muttering "Dov‚ lo mettiamo?" Literally where should we put it -meaning the angry hard cock that is now out of his pants and oozing pre-cum all over my corduroy trousers. I bend to suck him and he explodes into and all over my face. He is apologetic about the mess and offers me his pristine handkerchief. Having had an orgasm he quickly leaves, but not without whispering "Ciao ... Grazie."
The seats in the theatre have now all been occupied and I look for Enzo in the men's room. He is nowhere to be found although every urinal is occupied and there seems to be lots of activity. Back in the theatre I find Enzo once again. We find seats right under the screen and watch the rest of the film with suppressed howls of laughter. On the way to the car he asks me where I had disappeared and I tell him about the overexcited young recruit. He laughs and inspects my hair for semen. Something in his manner makes me wonder what he had been up to in the men's room.
On Sunday we inspect the great palace built by the Kings of Naples about five miles from the old city of Caserta. By mid-afternoon exhausted with walking through State Rooms and Galleries, we take refuge in the gardens behind the palace. I explain something of the history of the great European garden to Enzo. He is intrigued by the concept of the picturesque and I do my best to explain it to him. Seen from the palace windows, the great fountains at the far end of the vista had looked so grand. When we reach them they are scrawled with ribald graffiti and full of banal refuse. Enzo launches into his tirade about Italians and their lack of pride in their heritage. It is remarkable how bitter he becomes on the subject of his countrymen, his culture. If I venture a criticism he becomes defensive and angry. Whenever he laments the "miserable state of things" I hear a voice that is not his, which I imagine to be his father's. At these moments his anger and the occasional excursion into dialect threatens to turn him into a stranger.
Like a momentary bout of inclement weather, Enzo's indignation soon disappears. We have wandered deep into the Giardino Inglese. It is romantically overgrown and unkempt. We find a little temple folly and explore it's vandalized interior, the walls covered with an iridescent green lichen. In a corner a pile of crumpled paper napkins gives evidence of a prostitute's al fresco sexual encounters. I put my arm across Enzo's shoulders and press my face against his neck. His hair smells warm and slightly nutty. He turns and we kiss. I am suddenly reminded of the limited remainder of my stay in Naples. Enzo is irreplaceable, life has become unthinkable without him . He becomes thoughtful as I tell him this. We walk back towards the entrance to the Reggia and I broach the subject of him coming to live with me in Rome. The lines in his forehead are deeper than usual and I realize I have introduced a serious topic. We are so close at this moment and yet he seems to be searching for a suitable facade in order to shield the chaos I have introduced by asking him to live with me. We wander on in silence, back past the great building with its expansive, placid facade the noble entrance front the palace of Caserta proffers to its visitors. Behind it, gathered into an uneasy order are the ceremonial staircases, grand salons, marbled bathrooms, domestic rooms, apartments, acres of servants quarters, dark basements, stables and dreary corridors of empty rooms that were never assigned any purpose. My thoughts about Enzo living in Rome conjure up the pleasure it would give me to be his guide.
Enzo tells me he will think about it. Which means he won't think about it at all. In any case he assures me he will come and visit -especially during his long holidays. He has relatives in Rome. Staying with them would explain things to his parents and he is sure they will let him do as he likes. I can tell from his regained composure that he has begun to plan the complex system of lies and half-truths that are his reality.
At the Scuola da Ballo on Sunday evening there are already six or seven "studenti" when Enzo and I arrive. The double storied salone has been rearranged so that small caf‚ tables and chairs now fill the outside perimeter, leaving a small dance area in the middle. A tinny boom box roars vintage Italian rock and roll in which some Neapolitan descendants of Caruso croon sentimental ballads against pulsating backgrounds. We take places at an empty table. Signor De'Crescenzi advances toward us with glasses and a carafe of wine, "compliments of the house." He murmurs indistinctly that the "giovani stranieri" are welcome and then returns to his post near the bar.
Soon a few couples have braved the dance floor but to my surprise, whatever the music, they are dancing in tight embrace. This is the pattern, a delightful anachronistic way of snuggling up to another man without incurring the insulting epithet: froscio, faggot. Enzo and I giggle at the spectacle of erections straining in trousers as the participants return to their tables. None of them seem conscious or concerned about this general state of arousal. We talk with a table of young conscripts near us and one of them asks Enzo to dance. Soon another asks me and we are both engaged in passionate embraces. My partner is fascinated that I am American and able to speak Italian.. Meanwhile our cocks are rubbing against each other and I can hardly catch my breath for the excitement. After slowly grinding our way through three tracks of what sounds like an amorous goatherd's yodelling, my partner, Claudio, asks if I want to "fare una passegiata," literally "take a stroll." I look around on the now crowded dance floor but cannot locate Enzo. By now my curiosity about Claudio has begun to dim my vigilance about Enzo.
We walk out one of the upper gallery doors into the darkened corridors of the theatre. Claudio seems very familiar with the place and has the determination of someone who knows exactly what he wants. He leads me into one of the boxes then closes and locks the door. He kisses with passion but without expertise. Our hands are all over one another. He kneads and spreads my ass cheeks while he grinds his pelvis into my crotch. He opens my shirt and undoes my belt so that my trousers fall to the ground. I gradually reveal his lean muscular body, peeling off his shirt and underwear. He has a wiry cock that stands so erect it cleaves to the rippled muscles of his lower abdomen. I embrace him and feel his hard small ass which I can cup in my hands. Raising his arms, I apply my tongue to his armpits. He has long silky black hair under his arms but his chest is quite hairless. The steamy odor of fresh sweat is intoxicating. " Dov‚ lo mettiamo?" (where should we put it?) Again that question: I wonder if it is taught in catechism classes along with "Why did God make me?" He speaks with a hushed urgency -there is no doubt what is on his mind but I am not sure I want to be fucked up the ass and summarily dismissed as is usual in these circumstances. I decide to stall by falling to my knees and sucking him. His cock begins to secrete pre-cum almost at once and he is shaking with excitement. I focus my attention on his tight ballsack and then lick the raised taut ridge, a serpentine tube that leads between his legs to his asshole. He is about to cum all over me and I decide it is time he did something to me. Standing up I indicate that I want him to suck me. He makes a pathetic attempt and after persistently scraping my cockhead with his teeth I pull him up by the shoulders and we kiss. He works his way behind me and begins jabbing the general region of my asshole with his prick. It reminds me of dogs mating: a turnoff.
Just as I am trying to devise a way of cooling things down, voices can be heard in the adjacent box. Claudio puts his ear to the connecting door and whispers, "Lo stanno inculando -senti" "They're fucking someone, can you hear." He opens the door a couple of inches and I see Enzo being fucked by a short bullish man with powerful muscles and a close-shaven military haircut. I can see and hear everything clearly. The man's thick long cock slowly, methodically, relentlessly is plowing my lover's tight asshole. Enzo is bent over a gilded chair. Alongside a cherub-faced boy jerks himself off with total abandon. The fucker groans, muttering repeatedly, I think he is calling Enzo his troia, his whore. Occasionally he will pull his cock all the way out with a wet-sounding "plop" so that I can see the large plum shaped head. It glistens lasciviously in the theatre's amber light. Then he slowly pushes it in and Enzo sighs. When he begins to speed up, smacking his balls against Enzo's ass he emits high-pitched animal cries, somewhere between pleasure and pain, or perhaps a combination of both. I have no thoughts and feel Claudio slipping into my ass. He fucks me brutally and after a dozen deep jabs he comes and so do I, spontaneously, my cock untouched., juice flying in every direction.
The return to the hotel is tense and silent between us. In bed beside me Enzo is restless. His eyes are closed but he does not sleep. I contemplate the whorls of hair at the nape of his neck, the translucent shell of his ear. He lies with one arm crossed beneath his head, half on his side, back slightly arched, the gentle dual hillocks of his ass in shadowy relief. I slip his briefs down and he murmurs an incoherent protest. Fucking Enzo will erase the events of last night. My cock is rock hard at the thought. I embrace him from behind, reaching aroung to reassure myself that Enzo is hard. He wriggles slightly as I grip his cock simultaneously dragging my tongue across his back, through the little grove of silky brown hair at the indentation just before the crack of his ass delineates and deepens. My tongue moves inexorably towards his opening, his skin smells musky and vanilla. When I reach his asshole I spread the cheeks to give maximum access and begin rimming the corrugated, sensitive surround. If I can excite him sufficiently he will open up and welcome my cock. My plan is to get him so aroused that he will beg to be fucked. The sphincter relaxes unable to resist my plunging, licking tongue. The lubricant is nearby on the bed and I lavish it over my cock. Working my knees up between his legs to spread him as much as possible I get ready to penetrate. He tenses as though contemplating my next move. I hold my breath and put the head of my cock at his hole. He turns abruptly: "No ...basta ...non voglio" I am too close to orgasm and he kneels in front of me pressing his body against mine, kissing me, pushing his tongue deep into my mouth and we pump cum all over each other's stomachs.
On the way back to Naples we decide to take a detour to see the remains of ancient Roman site that has only recently been unearthed. Enzo is more silent than usual. After stopping for coffee I broach the subject of his being fucked by the soldiers in Caserta and his persistent refusal to be fucked by me. "It hurts when you do it." is his terse reply. "You're too big." "Well that's sort of flattering, but it's not true." Enzo is silent for a few moments. "I think it's because I love you. Making love with you is different."
He puts his hand on my thigh and I place mine on top of it.
"But I feel as though it is a part of you that I don't know. A pleasure you reserve for others and refuse me. How do you think it makes me feel."
Enzo's voice is husky and low. "O.K. ... Let's try."
The road is deserted except for fields of vegetables on either side. I stop near a group of trees and Enzo wastes no time in going down on me, sucking my cock with an inspired passion. I take him by the head, my hands full of his hair, and turn his face toward mine. His mouth is wet with saliva and smells deliciously of my cock and balls. His kiss is one of absolute capitulation -he says breathlessly "You can fuck me. I'll let you hurt me -it doesn't matter, I love you." We get out of the car and walk into the cool darkness of the wood. It has begun to rain and thunder growls ominously somewhere just beyond the surrounding hills. There is a huge plastic covered greenhouse nearby -an entire field covered by wooden battens and translucent sheeting. Lifting a corner we take refuge inside, it is still and warm.
Enzo undoes his trousers and drops them around his ankles. My finger traces the puckered circle of his asshole. I wet him as well as I can -his excitement takes the form of babyish moans. I step behind him and tell him to bend over. He shows his willingness by arching down and grabbing his ankles. This opens his hole invitingly - right down to the silky pink lining. It also tenses all the muscles in his thighs and lower back I am dizzy with lust as I wet the head of my cock. But I am losing my erection. The storm now begins to break in earnest. Rain beats down on the opalescent covering producing an incredible din.
"What's the matter" asks Enzo.
"I don't know. It must be the storm."
He smiles and kisses me, then we embrace tightly, fiercely, an absurd sight with our pants down around our ankles. A gust of wind inflates the plastic sheeting, which strains noisily at the fragile wooden cage of the greenhouse. Then it exhales with a colossal sigh.
Copyright 2001. All Rights Reserved.