The Blue Cat

by Roland Graeme

  The furniture looked antique, in an old-fashioned Italian style, with dark woods prevailing, accentuated with age-dulled gilt. The overall effect, however, looked cluttered and lived-in. The place didn’t look like a museum or a stage set. It had an inviting warmth.

  I observed all of these things incidentally and peripherally, as it were, because I was concentrating my attention on my host. I followed him into the kitchen, where he opened a cabinet and revealed a collection of liquor bottles.

  “Name your poison,” Rick said. “I do most of my entertaining downstairs. But when I do bring somebody up here, I want him to have everything he wants.”

  I selected a bottle of tawny port. “This’ll do for me.”

  “Oh, a good choice. I think I’ll have the same.”

  He carried the bottle and two glasses back into the living room, where we got comfortable. We nestled into oversized armchairs, with a coffee table between us. Nearby was a small desk, with a laptop set on it, amidst untidy heaps of papers.

  I had a sudden mental image of Rick and his lover Jed, the man who’d gone back to the United States, sitting here as Rick and I were now. They must’ve relaxed together at night as a matter of course, unwinding after the day’s work, talking about the day’s events...talking together intimately, before they went to bed.

  I felt it was my duty to make small talk.

  “It must feel strange living here, so far from home,” I suggested.

  “Not any more. This is my home now. I’ve begun the process of applying for Italian citizenship, in fact. Like everything else that involves the bureaucracy here in Italy, it’s a long drawn-out business, involving miles of red tape.” He sipped his port, then smiled at me over the rim of his glass. “But I don’t feel much like talking about myself tonight. I’m not all that interesting, after all. Just an innkeeper. Tell me more about yourself. I’ve never been to England, as a matter of fact. What’s London like?”

  I did my best to paint a verbal picture of some of the places I frequented. Rick was a good listener, which really means someone who knows how to draw another person out, first by putting him at his ease, then by asking pertinent and pointed questions, whenever the conversation shows any sign of flagging.

  I found myself telling him all about Geoff. It was, I realized, the first time I’d verbalized my feelings for him.

  I was putting away a good deal of the port, which went down easily and seemed to suffuse my entire body with a warm, drowsy numbness.

  It had been several hours since I’d had my dinner and now, as a result of all this late night imbibing on an empty stomach, I was getting a little drunk. I could feel that telltale sleepy listlessness taking possession of me.

  Rick took notice. “You look like you’re ready for bed.”

  “I’m afraid I am. And not in a potentially exciting way.”

  “When I invited you up here, I had some vague notion in mind of trying to seduce you,” Rick admitted, with a disarming frankness.

  “You wouldn’t have had to try very hard.”

  “That’s flattering to hear. But to be perfectly honest, I’m tired, too. I doubt either of us would be at his best. Maybe we’d both better call it a night.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this…but yes, perhaps we should. Will you give me another chance?”

  “You bet I will. But right now, I’ll walk you home.”

  It was a short walk—down two flights in the elevator, then down the hallway to Number 12. I had trouble fitting my key into the lock and Rick took over and did it for me.

  “I’m very drunk,” I apologized.

  “Good for you. Maybe you needed to unwind a little. And you’ll be all right in the morning.”

  When he put the key into my hand, I felt like a girl who’d been on a date with an old-fashioned gentleman who’d seen her to her door. I remembered that a chaste goodnight kiss was part of that heterosexual ritual. Being a respecter of tradition, I kissed Rick goodnight.

  What began as a gentle brush of lips against lips quickly turned into a lustful, open-mouthed, tongue-thrusting, saliva-mingling kiss and one that was anything, but chaste. We embraced there in the doorway, our bodies pressed tightly together, our lips still joined. We both had alcohol-enhanced erections, fighting to free themselves from the suddenly uncomfortable confinement of our trousers.

  I was about to act on my impulse to open Rick’s pants, extract his cock and have my manual and oral way with it—right there in the open doorway of my room, if necessary, where any other guest who might step out of the elevator could see us—when he broke our kiss and stepped back. He was grinning at me and he seemed amused.

  “Goodnight,” he told me, giving my cheek a pat with the flat of his hand. “Sleep well.”

  “But are you sure don’t you want to—ah—” I stumbled over my words.

  He knew what I meant. “I’ll give you a rain check. Go to bed.”

  With that knowing grin still on his face, he turned away from me and went back toward the elevator.

  I went to bed...alone. I remember standing beside the bed and shedding my clothes, not without some fumbling and a general lack of coordination. I don’t remember actually climbing into the bed. I must have collapsed on it and passed out almost at once.

  Chapter Seven

  A Scandinavian Interlude

  I felt obligated to apologize to Rick, the next time I saw him. This was the following morning, when I dragged myself downstairs to have my breakfast. I wasn’t exactly hung over, but I wasn’t feeling particularly energetic, either, and I badly needed my omelette, orange juice and coffee to perk me up.

  “Don’t be silly,” Rick told me.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of a prick teaser.”

  “Oh, I think you’re anything, but that. But like I said—I doubt that either of us would’ve been at his best last night, if anything had happened. We were both tired.”

  “Maybe—when we’re both rested—you’ll give me that second chance I remember us mentioning.”

  “Of course. I’m not much of a believer in delayed gratification, myself. But sometimes a little suspense can increase the impact of the bang, when it does come.”

  We left it at that, for the time being. I didn’t know quite how to read him or where I stood with him. I thought he liked me, but of course, that wasn’t necessarily the same thing as sexual attraction. I felt insecure around him. I kept second-guessing myself, afraid to say or do something that might turn him off.

  I told myself I was behaving like a child. After all, Rick and I were both adults. Neither of us was in a committed relationship...and neither of us was a virgin.

  To my delight, I received a prompt reply to my email, from Geoff. It wasn’t uncommon for several days or longer to elapse between our electronic communications.

  For Christ’s sake, if you want to have sex with this bloke Rick, go ahead and have sex with him, Geoff wrote. I don’t mind. It might even do you some good. American men can be very hot. Just remember that I expect to hear all the details, afterward.

  By the way, I love you, too. You silly twit.

  I realized, with a shock, that I’d gone without sex for some time. Here in San Floriano, I was keeping myself so busy during the days that at night, when it was time to go to bed, I was so tired out that I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. This happened even when I was cold sober. Last night had been exceptional only because the alcohol had served as an additional sleep aid.

  Incredibly, I hadn’t even taken enough time out of my schedule to treat myself to a fast wank!

  It was definitely time to take action to rectify this situation, if not with the tantalizing but elusive Rick, then with some other man.

  From what I observed, I was probably the only gay man in San Floriano who wasn’t getting laid. Like any town, this one had its cruising and pickup spots, and because of the steady tourist traffic, some of the cruising and
pickup spots here had a higher degree of visibility than might otherwise be the norm. Among these was The Blue Cat’s barroom, especially late at night.

  By now, I knew that the likeliest prospects always came to The Blue Cat alone. They entered with a brisk functionalism that advised the other patrons that they weren’t there just to drink, watch or to brood. No, these blokes were there looking for action.

  Others came in arbitrary twosomes, talked together for a little while, but then spent most of the time ignoring one another and surveying the crowd, often looking into the wall mirrors with a sort of reconnoitering restlessness. A few came in groups of three or more, as though for protection.

  There were also the male prostitutes. I have to admit they were discreet. They tended to congregate at one end of the bar, and they preferred to stand leaning back against it, facing the room, instead of sitting on the stools—the better to display their wares, of course. On some evenings, the line-up of bulging crotches was quite impressive.

  Some of these hustlers were young boys, barely out of their teens. However, to my initial surprise, the majority of them seemed to be grown men, in their twenties and even their thirties. They were good-looking, well built, friendly, and had an unmistakable working-class look about them. I found them attractive, but I would not exactly describe them as glamour boys.

  I recognized two or three of them as fishermen, whom—I can’t deny—I had checked out when I’d seen them working on their boats during the day. To my disappointment, my young friends Donato and Tomaso weren’t among them. They would have been worth the outlay of cash.

  I asked Luigi, from whom I had few secrets, to enlighten me.

  He explained that these older guys tended to be bisexual or gay-for-pay married men, looking to earn a few extra euros for their families, to supplement the meagre income from their regular jobs. Luigi saw nothing immoral in it, and as he pointed out to me, these local men had reputations to protect. They were not about to risk getting into trouble with the law by ripping off a tourist. They were out to conduct their business politely and efficiently, so they could get back home.

  Signor Rick, Luigi told me, tolerated the male whores as long as they behaved themselves. They were not to annoy those customers who showed no obvious interest in them and of course, any sexual activity on the premises needed to take place behind closed doors, in a guest’s room. After all, Luigi went on, in his droll philosophical manner, lots of the gay tourists who passed through San Floriano liked to have a decent selection of rent boys to choose from for their pleasure. As he put it, we want everyone who comes to Il Gato Blu to have a good time.

  I wasn’t in the habit of paying for sex, but that evening, observing the line-up at the bar, I was tempted for a moment. After all, it would just be my way of contributing further to the local economy. As things turned out, I found diversion elsewhere—or it might be more accurate to say, diversion pursued me.

  A group of young people—five boys and four girls, to be exact—entered the bar and sat around a table near mine. They had tourist written all over them.

  They were all very young, in their late teens or early twenties, and there was an innocent boisterousness about them, a glee at the mere fact of being alive, that made me feel like a dull old codger by comparison. They spoke to their waiter in careful tourist Italian and with accented English and conversed among themselves in a language I couldn’t identify from the rapid-fire snatches I overheard of it. I speculated about their nationality and guessed Eastern European or Scandinavian.

  They were eating pizza, which The Blue Cat’s kitchen baked in its ancient brick oven. The pizzas came out piping hot, with thick soft crusts loaded with toppings. One of the boys happened to glance in my direction. He caught my eye and smiled at me in a way that was not only friendly, but also more than a little seductive. I nodded to him, just to be polite. He and his buddies were a bit young for my taste.

  The boy who’d shown this interest in me got up and went to the counter, apparently to order something. On his way back, he made a detour and came to stand beside my table.

  “Hello!” he addressed me, brightly.

  “Hello there, yourself.”

  “You don’t mind my talking to you, do you?” He had a lilting accent.

  “Not at all.

  “Are you an American?”

  “I’m English.”

  “English! How wonderful! You must come and have a drink with us.”

  “All right, but only if you let me buy the next round.”

  The lad led me to his group’s table and found an extra chair for me.

  “Look what I have found,” he reported to his friends. “A genuine Englishman!”

  Never did I feel so exotic. I was the object of intense interest, subject to a volley of questions—what was my name, what part of England was I from, how long had I been in San Floriano and what was I doing there?

  “And where are you from?” I asked, addressing the group as a whole.

  “Denmark!” was the gleeful response.

  Not the first time the Vikings have invaded Italy, I thought.

  We introduced ourselves. My admirer was Paavo and his companions were Andreas, Christoffer, Johan, Magnus, Katrine, Anna, Sofie and Karla.

  They were all university students, on holiday. They’d been to Malta and Palermo. They were staying overnight in a hostel not far from the waterfront, and in the morning they’d catch the first bus to Naples. From there, they’d work their way up the peninsula, to Rome, Milan and Venice, before heading home.

  I was encouraged to help myself to the pizza. They were washing it down with copious draughts of Chianti, so I got the waiter’s attention and told him to bring two more bottles and to put them on my bill.

  It was a convivial little party. I admitted I was a painter. Furthermore, in response to the matter-of-fact question, “Are you gay, straight or bisexual?” I admitted that I was gay.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Christoffer asked me.

  “Back home in London. Not here.”

  “Paavo is gay,” Christoffer revealed. “And he likes you. Why don’t you and he make love?”

  Paavo had the decency to blush at this suggestion.

  “Let me have another glass of wine while I think about it,” I said.

  “If you have enough, you won’t have to think about it,” Andreas joked. “You’ll just go ahead and do it!”

  “Paavo is very good in bed,” Magnus informed me.

  “Oh? Do you speak from personal experience?”

  “Yes! But we were both drunk at the time!”

  This admission sent the others into gales of laughter. Paavo’s face reddened even more, but he didn’t seem to mind the teasing. He kept looking at me and smiling, in a way that was very flattering—and that might have put libidinous thoughts into the head of a far more moral man than I.

  If the Danish government were to sponsor an advertising campaign to promote tourism, it couldn’t have chosen a better poster boy than Paavo. He was pink-cheeked, blond-haired and blue-eyed, with a ready smile and an infectious laugh. He looked as though he’d be right at home on a ski slope—or soaking in a hot tub, which might be where the kind of gay man who liked them young and pretty would prefer to encounter him.

  The wine I’d consumed seemed to be flowing directly into my bladder. I excused myself and made my way through the crowd to the men’s room

  I heard the door’s hinges creak as someone followed me into the room, but I didn’t bother turning to see who it was. I stepped up to a urinal and concentrated on the splash of the stream in the cigarette shreds and filters. I was almost finished when I felt that uncomfortable awareness that someone was watching me. I turned sideways.

  That little Danish scamp, Paavo, stood at the next urinal looking directly down at my penis. I couldn’t help noticing that his own penis was standing out from his fly, thick and half-erect. It was as rosy pink as his cheeks. He was milk
ing it lazily.

  For a moment, it caught me off guard, making me too surprised to think coherently. It was all I could do to stand there and stare back at him. In that moment, he reached one hand out toward me—and intimately touched me.

  A rush of excitement shot through my body.

  “Oh, that’s a nice big cock,” he whispered.

  I stepped back, turning away and began to stuff myself back into my shorts.

  “Thanks.” I managed to say.

  “Don’t put it away yet,” he pleaded.

  “This isn’t that kind of a bar.”

  “Isn’t it? I wonder.” His pants were still open, his erection slowly drooping downward, jerking as it did. “Have you seen the owner? He is a very handsome man. And he allows those male prostitutes to hang out in here and pick up customers, as long as they are discreet.” He smiled seductively. “I’m not a hustler. I like to give it away for free. But I, too, know how to be discreet.”

  “That’s good to hear.” I was speaking more-or-less unthinkingly, just keeping the conversation going, stalling for time. As it turned out, stalling wasn’t necessary. My Scandinavian acquaintance wasn’t at all shy and he obviously preferred the direct approach.

  “I would so much like to be naked with you so I could make love to every part of your body,” he informed me. “I’m sure I could give you a very strong orgasm.”

  “That’s quite some proposition. I’m tempted to take you up on it.”

  “Why don’t you? Don’t you like me?”

  “I like you just fine.”

  “Then why shouldn’t you and I make love?”

  I had to admit I couldn’t come up with any particularly compelling reason why we shouldn’t. Even the logistics presented no difficulty.

  “I have a room here. Upstairs,” I told him.

  “Oh, perfect. I was going to invite you to the hostel where my friends and I are staying…but there, we might be interrupted. I share a room with three other guys. And only one of them is gay.”

  “That must complicate matters.”