Out on the Street Pt. 01

* * *

Vittorio:

I suspect some people would say I've been a bad influence on Angelo. Probably they're right. I was the one who egged him on to climb out on that branch which broke, but he was the one who fell into the river and had to be rescued by a man who was very angry about the ruination of his suit.

I was the one who pointed out a few months back that he was now easily bigger than his father, and maybe he should try pushing back sometime. It was also me who suggested he leave, after his taking my advice on that front had caused things to move from bad to intolerable at home. And I was the one who told him how he might fund such a move.

I remember the way he looked at me, blinking and puzzled, his lips forming the shapes of words that died away unspoken.

Eventually he stuttered, "You...let men bugger you...for money?"

I nodded, since that was a fairly accurate summation of many of the transactions.

He screwed up his face against the idea. "How could you, Vitto?" he pleaded.

I sighed. "I wasn't offered a choice the first time. I was just...renting out my mouth to begin with, but..there were two of them, and they...and then...and if you've gone of your own accord to a place where that sort of thing...happens, well...I guess there's no use in complaining..." shrugging it off.

He frowned at me for a while, chewing his lip, digesting this, before saying abruptly, "What's it like?"

"It hurts," I told him. "But it's over with quick and it pays well. A quarter's the least I ever had for that. I got a dollar once."

He whistled through his teeth. "A whole dollar..." I could see him attempting sums in his head.

"That's right," I told him, "for five minutes' work. Or four. Or one. Mind you, it's not something you can carry on at for hours. But you, you might do even better than me - I mean, I look like a sewer rat, whereas you..."

He brushed that off with an irritated flick of his hand, hating to be reminded of it. Angelo's good looks were like a poison to him. They were the cause of all his troubles.

He was born beautiful, he had told me - born blond, blue-eyed, and bonny - and his swarthy, craggy, bow-legged father had hated him on sight, declaring, 'That's no son of mine' - had hated his mother for playing him false, hated her more the more she denied it, marinating in a rising tide of resentment over the years, finding relief in explosions of violence toward either the slut or the cuckoo in the nest, as two more brothers and a sister arrived, all of them dark and bony and shrivelled-looking.

It was only after the fifth, and sixth, and seventh child emerged exactly resembling their eldest brother that his father recalled two of his five sisters had been tall and blond and made a kind of peace with his situation and his long-suffering wife. But not with Angelo.

"I guess it was just a habit with him by that time, hating me," he'd said once, shrugging it away.

I considered my own situation, acknowledging I'd been fortunate in comparison. My stepfather treated Lucia and me no differently to any of the others, which is to say, he railed at us continuously but rarely beat us - only if we'd actually done something to earn it - and luckily, he was a sleepy-happy drunk rather than the type who needs to lay about him.

However, there were limits to his forbearance and I'd overstepped them. The door he lived behind was closed forever now, and on the other side, my mother, all my brothers and sisters...and whatever he'd chosen to tell them about me.

But Angelo and I, we made a good team, We worked together, ate together, bunked together, touted together, and never grew tired of one another.

And now? Now, I was about to propose that we went, together, to the home of a wealthy older man in an unfamiliar part of town to perform according to his wishes, and possibly to be paid handsomely - or possibly to be knocked about, locked in a cupboard, and handed over to the police as housebreakers. It could go either way.

All the same, I wanted to chance it...but I had to convince Angelo first.

* * *

Frank:

I don't know what I expected to happen. I tried not to invest too much hope, but that golden-haired boy had got into my bloodstream in a way that hadn't occurred for a long, long while. There had been no up-and-coming sculptors or sketchers occupying my guest room anytime in the last two years, and I'd felt no particular lack most days.

I'd assumed it was the inevitability of age creeping over me, blanketing me, thickly muffling such appetites as anticipation, enthusiasm, passion, rage, so that they rippled slightly, deep in the gut, from time to time, rather than punching through the surface with the sudden shock of a huge whale breaching. But anticipation there was in plenty, in the two days that followed.

I had work to attend to which kept me until late afternoon on Saturday, but I made sure to be home before my housekeeper had left for the day to tell her I'd be wanting hot water for a bath this evening...plenty of it.

Her comment was confined to a movement of the eyebrows as she raddled up the range and began reaching down the huge pots from a rack high above.

She'd shopped, cleaned - and washed my linens - for me for long enough now that I was fairly certain she was aware of my proclivities, but so far as I could tell, my obsession with bathing multiple times each week was in her eyes my chief perversion - indicative of a sort of bacchanalian decadence that left ordinary decent people raising their eyebrows speakingly, scratching their heads in puzzlement.

"Oh, stop that," I told her fondly. "Have we any reasonably fresh bread in the house? Any cheese? I may have a couple of fellows over for drinks later tonight."

"I brought bread yesterday," she replied almost accusatively. "Did you not see? There is cheese, yes. And apples, and shortbread, and-"

"Thank-you," I replied, stanching the flow before she could really get going, "very good. If you could just bring some more coal up so I can keep that water hot until later on, then you can go." I buttoned my jacket back up once more and went out to have an early dinner.

The spring was far enough advanced that it was light, though thinly, at eight, and I could tell from a block away that not only were there two figures loitering at the appointed corner, but that they were the two particular figures I'd hoped to see.

Once again, I was surprised at the force of what I felt - triumph and relief, interwoven tightly - the sort of thing that could easily transmute into possessiveness. Careful, Frank, I reminded myself, tread lightly.

I came upon them, hailing Vittorio, offering him my hand. He was quite discombobulated by this but shook anyway, then retreated a pace.

"Good to see you again," I said, then, turning to Angelo, "I spoke with Vittorio the other day...but I suppose you know that. And you are Angelo, is that right?" offering my hand to him also.

"Yes sir, I'm Angelo." He had a lovely husky voice, deep but soft, without much volume...a voice for murmured nothings at close proximity, a bed voice. I was simmering already, aching to have him. Tread lightly...

"I'm Frank," I told them both. "Come with me, now."

I took them in the back way, keeping in mind the neighbors, through the little gate in the wall, through my sliver of drab neglected garden, in by the rear door. No need for such considerations once inside though. There was a service staircase, but I never used it - I hated the cloistered feel, the elbow-banging proportions.

Outside, they'd been conversing quietly with one another as they followed me. Inside they fell silent, and when I turned to glance down at them as they trailed me on the main stair, they both looked profoundly unnerved.

I wondered what they were thinking. My house isn't large, but I don't share it with anyone. What did they make of one individual, with a dining room, a front room, a library, a study, a bathroom, and two bedrooms, all for his use alone? No doubt it seemed ridiculous, unnecessary, possibly even obscene.

I paused by the bathroom door and shepherded them through before me.

"In here, please."

They passed on in and stood looking about themselves, wide-eyed, huddling slightly against one another, as though for reassurance.

A thought struck me suddenly, as I reached for the little packet I'd left on the wash-stand.

"Can either of you read?"

Angelo looked dubious and alarmed in equal measure, but Vittorio nodded as he said, "I can, sir. Some."

I handed him the enema kit with its neat printed instructions. "Can you read this?"

He didn't have the sort of skin which colored in a blush, but I detected a hint of cringe in its place as he whispered, "Yessir."

"Good," I said briskly. "Well, I shall leave you two alone for a short while to take care of that, and afterward you'll both have a bath. I'm going to watch you while you bathe."

I closed the door on them and went downstairs to pour myself a scotch. Making my way up again, I reflected that neither of them seemed perturbed by my announcement I'd watch them bathing - but if bathing was something done in a tin tub set square in the middle of the floor of the only room you had, then likely it wasn't seen as private. Or as a potential source of erotic pleasure for a bather or an onlooker. Well, I hoped to be able to change their minds about that.

I fetched my cigarette case from my own bedroom into the guest one, turned down the covers on the bed there, and slipped off my shoes. Then I padded down the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. "How are you getting along in there?"

Vittorio's voice floated through the panelling. "We're in the bath, sir."

I stepped into the room and closed the door after me, the warmth of the scotch pervading my throat and chest, a smile tickling my face. "Damn! Already?"

Immediately they were both wide-eyed and solemn, chorusing, "Sir - sorry, sir!"

"No, no, it's quite alright," I reassured them. "For now, just continue as though I weren't here."

I leaned against the wall and nursed my drink for a minute, looking on through half-closed lids, by which time it was apparent to me that 'continuing as though I weren't there', wasn't going to work.

They were both going about things in the most matter-of-fact manner, doing a sketchy job of washing, and at a sharp enough trot that I might've thought the water was ice-cold had I not carried all those huge steaming pots up the staircase myself.

"There's plenty of time," I reminded them, "and plenty of soap. Don't try and conserve it, for goodness' sake. Make sure to wash your hair as well," - there are few thing in this world less erotic than head-lice - "and when you're done with that, wash each others' backs, please."

I saw a quizzical look pass between them, before Vittorio, with one of his odd flashes of boldness, ventured, "Sir, what is all this for?"

I smiled. "Well, why not? A bath is good thing to have, is it not? And for me, it's a wonderful thing to watch. And clean skin looks nice and feels nice and smells nice - and tastes nice."

Another look passed between them, consternation and dawning comprehension, an 'ohhh' moment. With a little coaching they managed to make a better job of washing, but still they weren't lingering, they weren't enjoying it.

Angelo especially was highly resistant to putting his head under the water to rinse his hair, but he submitted after a period of patient cajoling by his friend, who clearly had much more of the fish in his make-up.

The sight of him coming back up, panting hard through his mouth, eyes squeezed tight shut, his blond hair matted to his scalp, water cascading down his neck and shoulders, had me at full-mast in a matter of seconds. I wanted - needed - to see him in his entirety immediately.

"Alright, you can be done now," I instructed, gesturing at him to stand. "You can get out."

He did so, and I, most reluctantly, indicated the presence of the towel. But it can be good to have things revealed to you teasingly, in little sharp flashes, in slow progression. He turned away to dry his back, trying no doubt to preserve his modesty. I didn't mind. I was glorying in the play of his shoulder-blades as the towel dragged to and fro and drifted ever lower to the small of his back.

His body was as beautiful as his visage...stunning, utterly stunning. He wasn't much taller than Vittorio, maybe two or three inches more, possibly also stunted a little from lack of nourishment early on, but he was in essence a larger man, and with, I thought, some growing yet to do - some broadening, thickening, some building on the foundations so gloriously displayed before me.

He had the musculature of a piece of classical statuary just now, but I surmised that the years of labor ahead would see him grow Anglo-Saxon in his proportions, developing the bucolic beefiness of one of Dürer's subjects, at which point I wouldn't be interested in anything much from him except a sketch to put on my wall, but for now...

"Turn around," I instructed, and he complied, the towel now clutched in one hand.

I took him in at a sweep, from the cool blue-grey eyes, firm jaw, the deep hollow at the base of his throat, the light dusting of curly hair on his flat-paned chest and forearms, a perfectly respectable cock, well muscled thighs, shapely calves - even his feet were lovely!

"Lord, you're beautiful!" I exclaimed, tipping the last of the scotch down my throat, leaning over to place the glass on the wash-stand, returning to ogling him unreservedly.

He allowed it, standing docilely on display as my eyes wandered all over, but his cock hung limply in its natural state. My undisguised interest apparently didn't inflame him in the slightest. It was a pity, but it wasn't really a surprise. This was business, not pleasure, for him...for both of them.

I turned to Vittorio, still largely submerged. "You too - out you come."

He rose gracefully to his feet and stepped, on tip-toe, out of the bath. Angelo, resigning himself to the fact of his nudity, handed him the towel.

Vittorio buried himself in it, drying his hair and face vigorously, viciously even, and as he emerged he peeked over at me, up through his lashes and out from between several ropy clumps of damp dark hair, fallen forward. I smiled at him, and to my surprise, he smiled back - a completely genuine smile.

His grin was transformative, entirely erasing the slightly rodentine cast to his face, and his dark eyes glinted for a moment. In the plentiful light of this room I could see they were brown rather than black, but a lustrous, rich brown, with a glowing depth to them, like a piece of beautifully polished teak.

On the whole, he was less my type, and of course he could never show to advantage ranged alongside Angelo, but I felt a flicker of interest all the same, mingling with an odd twinge of something that might almost have been affection.

He dried himself more rapidly and deftly than Angelo had, and watching him I thought, as I had when first speaking with him, that his beauty was more in the lithe grace of his movements than in his actual physical attributes.

Small and sinewy and probably a lot stronger than he looked...the sort they send up chimneys, down mine-shafts. I supposed nailing lids on packing cases was heaven compared to that. Prostituting oneself? Was that preferable too? Possibly - but what would I know?

He was olive-skinned to accompany his dark eyes, and lacking any hair on his torso. Lacking any fat anywhere, giving surprising definition to his wiry frame, glimpses of sharp bone here and there, at hip and wrist, and...I was staring at the jutting bone of his wrist when he turned it outward to pass the towel back to Angelo, and I took in the veins tracking up his inner arm.

Oh, lovely, lovely...the heat of the bath had brought the blood to the surface...I could see veins at his neck, on his thighs, on his stomach. I came back to the wrist, fancying I could detect the pulse, the lifestream coursing by.

In another time, when I was a younger man, I might have traced that meandering path with my tongue, unhurriedly following it wending ever upward, and tried to bury myself where it dived at the intimate junction of arm and shoulder, to pursue it into the depths, back to the beating heart, and I salivated thinking of it now. But that sort of thing is for a lover, not a...whatever this was.

"Come through to the bedroom," I said, turning away, beckoning them on after me.

Once inside, I seated myself in the brocade covered arm-chair in the corner of the room. They remained standing, watching, waiting for instruction, shrinking in slightly toward one another.

Lighting a cigarette, I announced, "I want you to touch one another."

There was a brief pause, and I felt confusion massing in the air around them, before they turned to face one another, and each reached out a hand, and placed it on the other's forearm.

"Not like that," I explained patiently. "I want you to explore one another."

Four eyes turned to me, reflecting back total blankness.

"Imagine you're blind," I suggested, "and you have to feel your way about. You need to get to know the person in front of you, to build a picture of them, by shape, by size, and texture."

Of course they both instantly closed their eyes.

"I said imagine you're blind," I clarified, "not pretend you're blind. I want you to feel your way about as though you were sightless, but I want you to be watching while you're doing it."

This time there were nods of understanding, and I looked on as Vittorio, frowning in concentration, traced with his palm down the midline of Angelo's torso from the base of his throat, halting at his navel, circling it with a finger, trifling with the sparse hair sprouting there, coaxing it toward the hollow.

I was beginning to be very pleased when he suddenly seemed to recollect himself and jerked back his hand, glancing up at Angelo, over at me.

"You're doing well," I reassured him, as Angelo now reached out, taking a different tack, swiping up Vittorio's arm, across his shoulder, on up his neck, the side of his jaw - now combing a few of those stray dark strands into place behind his ear, then tracing the ear itself, looking intently, a frown gathering on his brow.

I heard him whisper, "Your ears are different to mine," and I thought to myself, yes! now explore more deeply...go on, bend forward and taste it...He didn't, of course. In fact, they both drew back a little, regarding each other quizzically, seemingly lost once more.

"Kiss one other," I urged.

Keeping the space between their bodies, they leaned forward and obediently made a brief graze of the lips, before separating once more.

Babies. Utter babies. You people, did you not grow up god-only-knows-how-many of you crammed in a single loathsome tenement room? How can you not have observed humans coupling before?

But of course there would be nothing much to see in that circumstance, no signifiers beyond a few sounds of effort, a brief horizontal jousting perhaps barely detectable in a darkened room - furtive utilitarian rutting, no sensuality, no joy, merely a straight-line sprint toward the finish and the relief which floods the body with drugged contentment, or for the other party, the relief of all that being done with for another day. And nothing much of the erotic can be gleaned in an alleyway either...

I dropped my cigarette in the ashtray and stood. "Come over here," I instructed, beckoning to Angelo.

He padded across the carpet to stand before me, displaying not the slightest sign of arousal. None was visible on Vittorio either. I had briefly wondered if they were lovers, but it seemed not.