Breakout

"Has Luca been in yet tonight?"

I had had to build up the courage, with my second drink, on the stool at the Mono Bar, a gay nightclub on Via Lecco within the old city of Milan, before I could ask the barman that. I didn't want to sound pathetic. It was a gay bar. It wasn't just that I was asking for one of the male prostitutes who frequently picked up men in this bar that I was hesitant. It was because Luca, who, at eighteen, was less than half my age and was one of the street urchins of Milan who maintained his existence by selling his body at that early age. He had led me around by the nose while we sat at this bar before—and in front of this same barman. There was nothing illegal about an eighteen-year-old agreeing to having sex in Italy any more than where I came from the States. The age of consent here was fourteen, so my fetish was well beyond that. Legal prostitution was licensed here, though, and there were efforts not to use it to prey on the young homeless.

The issue was the barman had seen Luca being contemptuous with me, knowing I was desperate to fuck him. But, in the end, Luca had gone with me, and here I was, meekly looking for him again. The barman had every reason to think I was pathetic. I felt even more pathetic caring what the barman thought about anything.

I wasn't interested in eighteen-year-old men like Luca because they were down on their luck and turning to prostitution to survive, but because I preferred the young-bodied men who were still impressionable, supple, and willing to be trained. I also must admit I was aroused by being toyed with as Luca had done. I liked a high-spirited young man. When alone with a young prostitute, I could be aroused by having to crawl on the floor to him and beg for it.

The Mono Bar tolerated young men Luca's age operating from here, but no more than reluctant tolerance by the barman on duty tonight went to men who sought out men of the street like Luca hooking up here. The clientele was preferred to be wealthier and less needy. I had come here to pick up young men off the street before. I had connected with Luca here before. I had let Luca make me almost beg for it at this bar before, in front of this barman. When we were alone, I had crawled to him begging for it.

"He was around earlier," the barman said tersely, as he took away my second empty and replaced it with a third scotch and water, heavy on the scotch. "I doubt he'll be back in, though. It's late."

It indeed was late, a bit after midnight. The Mono Bar didn't close until 4:00 a.m., though.

"It should be past Luca's bedtime," the barman couldn't resist saying. His look said that, at eighteen, Luca was merely a child to my nearly forty. The look was as contemptuous of me as it could get under the circumstances.

"No, of course not," I mumbled. "Did he leave alone?" I couldn't stop myself from asking.

"No, he was with a man." He added, "A man not much older than he is," just to make me feel more pathetic. That, of course, was why the barman could speculate Luca wouldn't be back. He'd already found his john for the evening. The remark was accompanied by something close to a sneer, as the barman turned and moved up the boards to talk with two men, one young and being surreptitiously fondled, and the other older—older even than me, in his fifties, I would think—who was intimately touching the younger man, trying to interest him in being picked up. The difference between them and what I had been looking for, though, was that the younger man was well dressed. I liked my young man more vulnerable, down on their luck, making it clear they had to do this to survive. Then I wanted them to treat me like dirt, below them. The difference between the persona Luca projected and that of the young man down the bar didn't make him any less the hooker than Lucas was, though, in my mind.

I gave him a good look. We'd shared gazes in passing before. Would I take him to bed? Maybe if he were younger. If he were eighteen—and if he showed me some contempt.

The younger man was looking past the man touching him. He was looking at me. I suppose that, at thirty-eight, and fit and Bohemian looking, I was more attractive and interesting to him than the dumpy-looking older businessman was. I was a better prospect. He would go to bed with me if I signaled to him now.

"Ah," I said, downing my drink and pushing off from the bar—not too steadily, as three stiff drinks were two more than my usual limit these days. I just had needed Luca to be here tonight. I wasn't just lonely. I'd sold one of my paintings to an Amsterdam alternative museum, somewhat of a breakthrough for me, and I'd wanted to share that with Luca. I was in Milan studying violin. I wanted to be a first-class musician. It was somewhat maddening to me that I was having much more success with the painting that paid my way than the music, where I wanted to make a name for myself.

Needing Luca just now was more than a sexual need. After we fucked, he changed. He listened to me. And he posed for me. The painting I'd sold was of him. It was for a very special museum; it wouldn't be covered in the press. But I wanted to share news of this sale with Luca.

And Lucas was eighteen—my fetish.

I paused out on Via Lecco, just outside the entrance to the bar, and lit up a cigarette. I didn't smoke much anymore—just as I didn't often go over my limit of one scotch and water—but I was at loose ends tonight.

As I was standing there, the young man who had been looking past the older man who was trying for a hookup at the bar came out and paused when he saw me. Indeed, with the windows by the door, he could have seen me just outside, smoking, from the bar. He paused on the other side of the door and lit up a cigarette as well.

"È un peccato che non ci lascino più fumare nei bar," the young man said.

I turned and looked at him. He was probably in his mid-twenties. He was a handsome young man, and it looked like he had a good body under the trendy and expensive-looking tight trousers and T-shirt he was wearing, the T-shirt being tight enough to show that he had rings pierced in his nipples. There was a snug ring in one of his nostrils too, crying "submissive" to those of us who paid attention to signaling conventions in Milan. A tight bun of his sunny-blond hair sat at the back peak of his head, just waiting for someone to undo it and let the wavy hair cascade to his shoulders as a preliminary for him lying back and spreading his legs.

Being a painter, images were vivid in my mind—and my mind now went through the sequence of his hair cascading and him lying back, slowly raising and spreading his legs, and rolling his hips up to give me a good approach angle. His hole would already be dilated, begging for my attention. My cock gave a lurch at the thought of this undoing of the hair and covering him—to the extent of having the sensation of penetrating, sinking into him, and starting to rise and sink, rise and sink, as my hand ran into the cascading hair and massaged his scalp, but my image was of an older teen, not this man.

This wasn't the first time I'd seen him in this bar. It wasn't the first time he'd given me the eye of interest. All very tempting—if he weren't in his mid-twenties.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," I said. I understood perfectly. I'd been in Italy for nearly five years now. I was getting pretty good with the language. I just didn't want to disappoint the young man by prolonging contact. I figured that not comprehending his language would cry him off without rancor.

"Oh, you're English—or American?"

"American," I said.

"I said it's too bad they no longer let us smoke in the bar. We have to come out here for that. But, then, I guess it's been that way for a long time in America, hasn't it?" He wanted conversation. The batting of his eyelashes told me he wanted more than that. He moved into an "I am available" stance.

His English was impeccable. Curses to English having become the language of international business and the tongue of choice for anyone with ambition. It was clear this young man was ambitious—and available. I was flattered, of course, that he was interested in me. He just didn't comprehend my fetish.

"Yes, it has," I said. "We haven't been able to smoke in bars in the United States for a long time." Then I soldiered on; it had to be done; he just wasn't right for the moment. "You are a very attractive young man, but I think you should go back to the businessman at the bar. You are too old for me, I'm afraid, and he probably is very rich. No hard feelings. I just have this fetish I can't deny."

"It isn't all about money," the young man said. "And it need not be about age." He was nothing if not persistent—and resilient. "We are all much the same in the dark, provided we've kept our bodies—which you have and I think that I have as well. I find you very attractive. I think you must be an artist. I think you may be passionate—a man passionate about his art."

"Yes, I am," I said, wanting that to mean I was a violinist, but knowing that it referred to a different mode of art altogether. "But I am a man with a fetish. I would not do your needs justice, nor would you do mine."

With that I stubbed my cigarette out in a receptacle provided for that at the door. I reached out and touched his forearm. "You really are a very nice young man," I repeated. "Sorry." Then I turned and headed out on Via Lecco, heading deeper into the old town, without looking back. I really didn't want to waste the young man's effort. I'm sure he had to complete a transaction that night to meet his rent. The fact that he'd let an old, ugly, and fat businessman fondle him at the bar told me that. The man no doubt was rich, though, would appreciate the attention, and would express that appreciation in lucrative terms that had necessitated the young man to come out on the street and sell his body. I could afford him; it just wouldn't accord me maximum pleasure—not when eighteen-year-old boys were to be had in this city.

Whenever I was lonely or maudlin or even in a celebratory mood, I liked to guide my steps in this part of the city past the Fontana di Piazza San Babila—the San Babila square fountain. Milan had magnificent fountains and this was one of the best. I lived in an apartment on the Via Cerva, beyond the Piazza San Babila, from here, so it was convenient to go by the fountain when I was returning from the gay bars in the Indipendenza district.

On this night, it was momentous to have done so.

I was the only one in the square when I entered it—or thought I was. I wasn't moving too steadily, as I'd drunk more than I should. But I'd walked this area frequently; I could have made it home on autopilot. I discovered as I approached the fountain, though, that there was someone else here in much worse condition than I was.

A water-soaked figure was stretched out on the lip of the fountain. It was a man—a young man. No, an older teen. He obviously was dead drunk or zoned out on drugs. He was snoring slightly, so he wasn't dead. His clothes were well cut and expensive looking, but he was soaked to the bone. He evidently had fallen into the fountain pool in some sort of intoxicated state and had only managed to drag himself out and onto the lip of the pool before passing out.

He wasn't dead, but he might be so if he remained out here much longer as the night cooled down. I bent over him and shook him gently, but he remained unconscious. I heard him mumble, "No, please, Giovanni, not again," but his eyes didn't open.

He was just a youth—a beautiful older teen—an angel. A shock of long, wavy black hair, his skin alabaster white. His body was perfectly formed. I felt myself going hard, but I fought it. I was concerned for his well-being, that was all. His eyes fluttered open then under long, curly eyelashes. His eyes were green. He was absolutely gorgeous. Oh, good lord.

"Vieni, figliolo. Potrai prendere la tua morte di freddo qui fuori. Dobbiamo portarti in un posto asciutto—Come, son," I said. "You'll catch your death of cold out here. We need to get you somewhere dry."

There was nothing to be helped. He had to be saved from himself. A teenager out here this time of night, intoxicated, whether from booze or drugs, would be taken to a prison if the police happened on him. He was too young to engage in either and there was a crackdown on this of late. He was much too beautiful to be in a prison with older men; they would share him around and the wardens wouldn't give a toss if they did. I helped him up to his feet and virtually carried him out of the square. My apartment on the Via Cerva was only a few streets over.

* * * *

I was half drunk and exhausted and sleeping like a log. I'd given the young man a towel, a pair of briefs far too big for him, and a blanket; taken his wet clothes to the dryer; and left him to curl up on the sofa in the living room, while I went to my bedroom, stripped down, showered, and fell down, deep asleep, on my bed. I wasn't as drunk as the young man, but I'd had more than my limit.

I hadn't gotten anything coherent out of him, and he kept zonking out on me. I hoped it was just booze and not drugs that would kick in even harder. I couldn't help myself from running my hands over his luscious body and through his lustrous black hair, cascading to his shoulders when I freed it from the band, while he was naked and I was drying him off. If he became lucid, I'd say I was looking for needle marks—and I was, but thank god I didn't find any. He did push at me a couple of times, murmuring things like, "No, don't," but he had to get out of those wet clothes—and his refusal of my touch just aroused me and made me want him.

I dreamt of Luca and of Luca being here with me in my bed, as he had been in the past. I dreamt of him lying on his back before me after he had humbled me and condescended to letting me in, raising and spreading his legs, and rolling his hips up to give me a good angle of access. I dreamt of leaning over him, of him grimacing a bit as I penetrated and then sank inside him, of running my hand into his flowing hair, and of rising and sinking, rising and sinking inside the stretching tightness of him. And I dreamt of a transition to me running my hands up Luca's slim, supple-skin back as I watched it rise and fall, his channel caressing my cock in a cowboy-position fuck.

When the angel who should have been in my living room on the sofa came into my bed and snuggled up to me, in my unconsciousness thinking it was Luca, I embraced him, kissed him on the cheek, and sank back into sleep. I sensed nothing unusual when his hands started roaming over my body, nor when it centered on my engorging cock, nor when he readjusted himself, moving down my body, and taking my shaft in his mouth.

In fact, I didn't become fully aware that I wasn't just in a wet dream with a conjured up Luca doing what Luca had done before until the young man from my living room lowered himself on my erection, facing my feet, palming my knees, and raised and lowered his channel on my throbbing shaft.

I had found him on the street, inebriated, possibly a homeless young man who had just been given some better-quality clothes by some generous man. The possibility arose now, since, after shunning me at first, he had initiated sex with me, that he was a street prostitute. He was riding my cock and showed every indication of knowing exactly how to do that, how to take a hung cock even as am older teenager. He was taking it without evidence of being overchallenged—he was opening and stretching for me, taking it all, deep. It wasn't difficult to surmise that he was a prostitute and that this was not an unusual or emotionally charged position for him to put himself in. He was taking the initiative here.

Now fully awake, I sat up in bed, reaching for and pulling the young man's legs to stream back along my hips. He docilely let me manipulate his beautiful body. I grabbed his wrists, letting him project his small, lithe chest out over my legs, and I pulled him back and forth as he dug his toes into the sheets behind me—and fucked himself on my shaft to my ejaculation. Turning him into my embrace, within my arms then, I held him close, fisted his cock, and stroked him off. He struggled a bit at my taking full control and moving relentlessly to milking him, but that subsided into docility and sighs as he set a closely controlled rhythm with his hips to stroke inside my fist.

After bringing him off, I maintained the close embrace, nuzzled my lips into his throat with a sigh, and sank once more into blissful sleep. Yes, I'd gone out to find one eighteen-year-old male prostitute and most likely was fortunate to come home with one who was even more sexy and yielding than Luca was.

I hadn't meant this, I kept telling myself. But I just kept on keeping on with it.

* * * *

"This is a very nice flat. I couldn't figure out how to work the coffeemaker, but I found cereal and milk. I hope you don't mind. You don't have much here to eat. You must live alone. Is that violin on the table in the living room yours? It's a very nice one. Do you play the violin?"

So many bunched-up comments and questions and spoken like the boy who probably still lived inside him. This started my morning in remorse. I'd fucked an innocent.

Wrapped in a sheet from my bed, he was perched on a bar stool on the island separating my kitchen area from the sparsely and eclectically furnished room that served as combined living and dining room. I had come out of the bedroom located at the far end of that room from the kitchen nook. The bathroom was off the bedroom. What the young man thought was neat about the apartment, I'm sure, was what was beyond the kitchen. What the kitchen window overlooked and a door from the kitchen led into was a roof area of my apartment building, a four-story former townhouse made into apartments, that had once been a huge greenhouse—when compared to the size of my apartment—and that now served as my art studio.

"Yes, it's my violin," I said. "I study at the Conservatorio Giuseppe Verdi. I wish to become a violin virtuoso, but to exist until then I am a different sort of artist. I paint. You speak English. Very good English," I added, suddenly aware that we weren't speaking Italian. We had been "speaking" in a completely different sort of language in the night.

"Everyone must speak English these days. I've been to America. You're an American, aren't you?"

"What gave me away?"

"You talk in your sleep. Who is Luca? Is he young, like me?"

"He's eighteen," I said.

"I think he must be a good lay. I think you like laying young men."

"Yes, I like laying young men," I admitted. There didn't seem to be any point in denying it. I'd laid him—or, rather, he'd ridden me—and it had been quite obvious that I had enjoyed it. I also enjoyed talking so blatantly about sex preferences with a handsome young man who was naked save for being wrapped in the sheet we'd fucked on the previous night.

"Eighteen-year-olds?"

"Yes." He didn't tell me he was eighteen at the point, but I already knew.

"Did I give you good fuck?"

You talk when unconscious yourself, I was thinking. You can ask me who Luca is and I can just as well ask you who Giovanni is. Yes, I liked laying young men like him. And, yes, he was a good fuck. he had been a divine fuck. I didn't answer any of that, though. "I'm glad you like the apartment. You look good—very sexy—in that sheet, but your clothes should be dry now. You were wearing good-quality clothes. Either you or someone who cares for you has very good taste. How old are you?"

I needed him to tell me so it was clear between us that what we'd done—what I hoped we'd do again—was legal.

"I'm eighteen-just. Are you angry about last night? Am I too young for you? If so, I'm sorry. You know I can choose to give myself to a man at fourteen here in Italy."