Beautiful Boys: Gay Erotic Stories (11 page)

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Authors: Richard Labonte (Editor)

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I pull a sheet around my waist and sigh, unable to find the energy to continue the conversation.
 
“Yuri is very upset I stay all night. He is very jealous.”
 
Jealousy must have a very different meaning in Czech.
 
“Is he your boyfriend?”
 
“Not now,” he says. “But he thinks so. It is time for me to go. You will be there at six tonight, of course. I am very excited you will hear me play.”
 
He tells me not to lose the scrap of paper on which he’s scribbled the location of this evening’s concert. I say I’ll try to make it, no promises. He laughs at my bravado, knowing the power of his smile over me.
 
“Do not be late. I will be looking for you when I walk onstage,” he insists, turning to ask one last question before closing the door behind him.
 
“What is your name?”
 
“Bill,” I admit.
 
“See you tonight, President Clinton.”
 
 
The crowd gathering in the vast lobby of the Rudolfinum is dowdy, but prosperous. The women’s shoulders are draped with bright Hermes scarves, adding a dash of color to their drab cloth coats. The husbands feign interest in their wives’ idle chatter while checking their Rolexes every few seconds, impatient for the concert to begin. The doors to the recital hall open, and a plump matron in squeaky boots leads me to my seat. The room is overheated and I regret not checking my jacket.
 
I hadn’t intended to be here. A repeat performance of last night’s reckless and stupid behavior was out of the question. I’d crawled back into bed, mocked by the strip of unused condoms on the nightstand, dozing fitfully until the late afternoon, trying to forget my regrettable lack of judgment. When I finally staggered into the bathroom, I didn’t recognize the stranger in the mirror. I splashed cold water on the raw skin where Tony had scratched my cheek. My boyish friends had pawed me like a pair of cats toying with a mouse before moving in for the kill, drawing blood, branding me with purple sucker bites on my throat and a grid of fiery welts covering my back. I scoured my body for bruises and nicks, aroused by the casual, impulsive damage they’d wreaked. My sudden, stubborn erection refused to fully recede even after I pumped a load of semen into the sink, banishing any possibility of a quiet evening of CNN and room service. I showered and dressed quickly, anxious to meet up again, already plotting tonight’s encore as I rummaged in my bag for the digital camera to record our performance for posterity. The images would make quite an impression when that bastard in DC opened the attachments to my greetings from Prague. At five forty-five, I was standing at the box office, ticket in hand.
 
 
He bursts on stage, leading a troupe of string players dressed in dark trousers and black silk shirts. He scans the front rows and, finding me, grins. He bows to the audience, a quick snap at the waist, then turns to face the ensemble, giving them a note to tune by. The program is little more than a classical jukebox selection of familiar movements from old warhorses: A bit of Vivaldi. Dvorak, of course: the
Prague Waltz
, a theme from
Humoresque
. I recognize the melody of Brahms’s
Hungarian Dance
.
 
But his joy is infectious. The ensemble is clearly happy to defer to the virtuosity of a musical dervish, their first violinist. The audience demands an encore before departing for their dinners. Tony leads his players back onstage for a robust nightcap of Mozart,
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
, the perfect selection to bid us farewell.
 
A light snow is falling as the audience disperses into the night. The women cling to the arms of their companions as they negotiate the icy sidewalk. I stand by the doors, warming my hands in the pockets of my jacket, feeling conspicuous and foolish. The invitation was to hear him play, with no promise of a rendezvous, no designated meeting place. Ten, fifteen minutes pass and I finally accept that I’m waiting for someone who’s probably halfway to his next destination—a café, a bar, the sauna. Yuri and he are off pursuing other prey tonight, fresh kill, leaving me standing on the steps to the concert hall, rejected and wallowing in self-pity, too self-absorbed to see Tony running toward me, his open overcoat flapping in the wind and white scarf dancing around his neck. He throws his arms around my neck and kisses my cheeks. The dark street seems less sinister now, the frigid wind less biting. The golems and nosferatus of this medieval city are in retreat, for the moment anyway. I point toward the castle on the hill, awash in brilliant electric light and tell Tony that his city is very beautiful.
 
“Prague is such a bore,” he says dismissively. “So small and dull. There is no opportunity for a musician here.”
 
He hails a cab and we squeeze into the tight backseat, balancing his violin case on our knees.
 
“We must hurry,” he says. “We are very late.”
 
He speaks to the driver, giving the address of our destination, I assume. I don’t ask where Yuri awaits us. My erection is straining against the fabric of my pants, aroused by the many possibilities. The sauna again? A deluxe cabin big enough for three and any curious stranger they invite to share me? A sex club with a corridor of glory holes and a leather sling? Maybe something more romantic? A dance club and a couple of bottles of cheap champagne, a prelude to another powder-fueled liaison at the Savoy?
 
“Ah, here we are,” he says as the driver stops in front of a nondescript building on a quiet side street. He sits clutching his violin case until I understand I’m expected to pay the fare. A gentleman in black tie greets us at the door and takes our coats and the violin case. The dining room is small, a dozen tables with crisp white tablecloths and bud vases with a single carnation and a sprig of asparagus fern. The waiter is carrying plates of homey fare, aromatic roast pork and beef, simmered for hours in broth laced with garlic and paprika. It appears Tony has decided on a romantic evening. I scan the room, looking for a thick mop of blond curls among the gray and balding heads. I’m a little puzzled about the rush, since it appears Yuri has yet to arrive. The maitre d’ leads us to a table in a far a corner and motions for us to sit. It’s obviously a mistake. A woman, matronly but not yet old, is already seated, still dressed for the outdoors in a fur hat and unbuttoned overcoat. Tony bends to kiss her cheeks and helps her with her coat. He speaks quietly, in a deferential voice; I understand my name and that I am being introduced. The woman smiles at me, dignified but friendly.
 
“I am pleased for you to meet my mother,” he says proudly.
 
He orders a sherry for his mother and two tall glasses of pilsner for him and me. They chatter in Czech. I know I am the topic of conversation; his mother is inspecting me, nodding approvingly. Yuri obviously is not expected to join us as there are only place settings for three.
 
“I shall order for the table, okay?” he announces. “You must know my favorite foods.”
 
He seems to point to every item on the menu as the waiter scribbles furiously on his notepad. We have a while to relax before the meal is served. Tony and his mother share the same blue eyes and dimpled chin. I see what he will look like in a decade or two when the Czech diet has softened his sharp features. He clasps my left hand and his mother’s right, as solemn as a minister about to unite until death do us part.
 
“Mama thinks you are very handsome and would have beautiful children,” he says.
 
Mama must be very naïve, assuming I’m a paterfamilias who’s taken an inexplicable interest in her son.
 
“Mama says I am very lucky to marry an American,” he laughs, scratching my palm with his index finger. “She says we must have a big apartment and she will visit us at Easter and the Christmas holiday. What do you think?” he asks, dazzling me with his ingratiating smile.
 
Preposterous, impossible, ridiculous, out of the question
, I silently protest as I squeeze his hand. His charms and prodigious appetites aren’t powerful enough to bewitch the jaded cynic I’ve become. But my flight doesn’t depart for three more days. There’s no reason to disappoint him, not just yet. He slips off his shoe and, burrowing his foot under the cuff of my pants, tickles my calf with his toes. I blush, mortified by the blood shamelessly rushing to my penis, undeterred by the matriarch smiling at me across the table. He arches his eyebrow, gently mocking me, his willing captive, knowing there’s time enough to keep stirring his cauldron until, steeped in his intoxicating brew of sex, charm, beauty and affection, refusing him will be impossible and I will happily embrace my fate.
 
THAT EMBRACE
 
Andy Quan
 
 
 
 
The crowd outside the chapel was bigger than the one inside; the family had perhaps not understood Adrian’s reach and effect. I stood just outside the doorway. If I strained, I could see the face of the person speaking at the pulpit, but I felt I didn’t deserve a nearer place or better view.
 
What I learned but hadn’t known: he had two brothers and two sisters; he made up nicknames for friends and acquaintances; he was a doting uncle; he was a joker from a young age. It wasn’t explained, but I learned from others before and afterward that he’d been raised in a strongly conservative suburb, a village unto itself so cut off was it from other neighborhoods. That perhaps explained the silence on his sexuality, even obfuscation, as a group of childhood friends eulogized about
what a ladies’ man he was
.
 
From the website of the judo club that he’d helped start, I learned of his kindness and the mutual devotion between teacher and students. Particularly touching was one testimonial from a mother of five.
Adrian encouraged me to be someone I never believed I could be.
So, it was natural the crowd was filled with fellow martial artists and students, including an old Korean master, who brought tears to all when he conveyed upon his old student, posthumously, the next level of his discipline’s mastery.
 
I hadn’t known Adrian’s age. From the strong features of his face and his athlete’s body, I’d assumed he was older than me, not six months younger. I wasn’t aware of his passion for U2. His sister described his dissection of their latest album and his joyful, shirtless dancing at their last concert. They’d chosen the group’s quietest and most mournful songs to precede and end the ceremony.
 
Most of the speakers referred to his charisma, how handsome he was, his startling blue eyes, the bulging muscles of his arms and torso.
 
This I knew.
 
 
After a few false starts, I’d settled into a comfortable apartment and neighborhood in Sydney ten years ago and joined the local gym. The atmosphere was friendly enough, though I hadn’t broken the ice with many other gym-goers. The trick, it seemed, was to start the conversation outside of the gym. That’s how I met Les and Simon, at a gay bar on a hot summer day. Simon was the talker, an extrovert, who looked familiar enough, though I’d definitely seen his partner, who looked like Mr. Clean, tall with a shaved head and broad shoulders. It turned out that they were the eyes and ears of the gym, combining forces to make friends and gossip about the rest.
 
They knew who was gay (most of the gym), who had been going out with who, how long they’d been members. Casually, I’d asked them about Adrian. Not that I knew his name. I’d just been entranced by his attractiveness and the bright smile that shone out of his square jaw.
 
“Yeah, he is handsome,” commented Simon. “Went out with a girl who worked at the front desk for a while, but people talk. We’re not sure about him.” Sexuality was what he was referring to.
 
“Have you seen his head, though?” quizzed Les. He was the cattier of the two, though somehow managed to sound factual rather than mean. “He keeps his head shaved, but you can still see where the hair plugs went in.”
 
This needed some explaining to me. I’d only vaguely heard about hair transplantation techniques, a vanity I was unfamiliar with, though in the setting of our gym, or our gay lives, it didn’t seem too unusual. We all worked out feverishly before dance parties so we could take our shirts off and be either proud of the results or at least unembarrassed. Steroids weren’t uncommon: how else could there be so many perfect muscle gods in Sydney? A few friends had surprised me by confessing to Botox treatments. “Well, of course
you
wouldn’t need it! You’re Asian. But look at the wrinkles on this white face!” Glen told me. “It’s the sun. We age pretty quickly here.” Someone had even pointed out a pec implant to me at a dance party. “Look at it. It’s a beautiful shape.” We were checking out the ample chest of one man. “But it doesn’t really move when his arms do.” I admitted that he was right.
 
“Are you looking sad, disgusted or judgmental?” asked Les.
 
It was the first. Such effort for something that had clearly not worked out.

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