The Virgin King

by John Michael Curlovich

  He chuckled. “Pheasant, or peasant?”

  “I’ve already seen one peasant moved into my palace today. That is quite enough.”

  The duke rang for a servant and asked for food to be brought. When they were alone again, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and looked around furtively. “I have to tell you that the Privy Council is looking favorably on this monk. He is evidently quite accomplished intellectually for a boy of his age.”

  “You’d never know it to look at him. How much of an intellectual challenge can it be to trim your beard once in a while?”

  Again he chuckled. “No one on the council has said so, but everyone is assuming he’ll be quite easy to manipulate. Coddle him, Theodora, play up to him. Sooner or later you and I will find the right opening, and the country will be ours. And if it comes down to it… kings have been disposed of before. Your poor husband, for example.”

  They kissed. And kissed again. Passion mounted quickly and before long they were making love. When the servants brought their food, the couple didn’t bother to interrupt their lovemaking for a moment. Royalty. On the wall the cuckoo in the clock cuckooed again.

  Chapter Six

  Galerie d’Edgar was not in the fashionable “artsy” section of Washington D.C. but in the gay section, just off Dupont Circle. People wanting to visit could take the metro to the Dupont circle station, then walk the two blocks to the gallery easily. The gallery had been in existence for years, serving primarily but not exclusively the gay/lesbian community. Most famously, it had been the place where Robert Mapplethorpe’s notorious photographs had first been displayed in D.C.; when a Republican senator denounced the gallery on the floor of Congress, its reputation was made, and it had been flourishing ever since.

  A lot of people assumed the gallery was named in honor of Edgar Degas, the French Impressionist painter. The truth was a lot duller than that. The gallery had been founded by Edgar Kaufmann, the gay department store heir from Pittsburgh (whose family had also built Frank Lloyd Wrights’ famous “Fallingwater”). Kaufman had run the gallery himself, then passed it on to his adopted son Eugene, whose own adopted son Paul now owned and operated the place. Paul was in his late 30s and nondescript, an unlikely wealthy galley owner. But under the Kaufmanns’ careful guidance, Galerie d’Edgar had built a worldwide reputation as one of the premier American venues for the art of photography.

  So when the gallery agreed to mount an exhibit of Logan Bockwein’s photographs of gay life, gay love and gay relationships, it was quite a feather in his artistic cap. It meant national, even international recognition of the quality of his photographic work. As the opening of the exhibition approached, the buzz in both the art world and the gay community mounted.

  You would never have known, on the night the exhibit opened, Galerie d’Edgar was at all a respectable venue. There were scores of people, men, women, old young, affluent or scraping to get by. Some were dressed in the latest high fashion; others were dressed down in studied casualness.

  A rock band played in one corner of the main gallery, and there would have been dancing except that the crowd was so thick there was no room for it. Two nearly nude go-go boys, in nothing but gold lamé jockstraps, danced on tables, and carefully hidden slide projectors flashed images of famous erotic artworks on the walls. In another room a drag queen named Blanche Davidian lip-synced to Broadway show anthems. And in still a third room, a happily quiet one, a pianist played classical compositions by famous gay composers—Handel, Schubert, Grieg, Poulenc and on and on; that was the room were the most explicitly sexual portraits were hung.

  Three open bars kept wine, beer and liquor flowing. People chatting with each other shouted to be heard above the music and the crowd noises. All in all, It was a celebration to rival anything during Pride Week.

  Scores of Logan’s photographs hung on the walls. Portraits of gay people, gay couples and gay families. Gay fathers supervised their children on public playgrounds; lesbian mothers nursed their babies. There were series of shots of gay teens performing their favorite musicals, some in drag; a mini-gallery of gay professionals—lawyers in court, doctors in their scrubs, teachers in their classrooms. The exhibition more than lived up to its title: Everywhere! Portraits of Gay Life.

  Logan circulated through the crowd, meeting people, shaking hands, managing all the political threads any artist needs to attend to in order to have a successful career. Everyone congratulated him on the show and asked what he was working on next. Several representatives from New York galleries expressed interest in moving the show to the Big Apple. The exhibition was, in short, a success.

  After an hour of smiling and glad-handing everyone, Logan found himself needing a break. He got himself a glass of wine and headed to the piano room. The pianist, a thirty-something guy in a dinner jacket and black tie, was just finishing a piano version of Handel’s “Water Music.” He was even blonder than Logan, with boyish features that made him look a lot younger than his age. Just as he hit the final chords of the suite, Logan approached him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Thanks. I need some quiet music just about now. If I hear one more disco anthem I’ll scream.”

  The pianist laughed and held out a hand. “I know what you mean. I’m Jerry Sullivan. And you’re the guy who did all this, right?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to check it all out yet.” He glanced at his watch. “But I’m about due for a break. How about a guided tour?”

  “Sure. My pleasure.”

  So Logan led Jerry around the gallery, pointing out his favorite shots and talking a bit about the technical challenges some of them posed. They sipped wine as they went, and before long Logan was quite sure he’d found the beginning of a very rewarding evening. He mentioned the picture of Marge and her ex-girlfriend. “She’s my dad’s personal assistant. He’d be lost without her.”

  “Your dad?”

  “P.T. Bockwein, the Tin King.”

  “Oh, wow! I never made the connection.”

  Logan laughed. “That’s probably just as well.”

  Someone pushed his way through the crowd, making straight for them. It took Logan a second to recognize him. “Rob! I thought you were going to Upper Coleslavia or someplace.”

  Rob shrugged. “They had an unexpected government shakeup, so the trip’s been postponed.” He was dressed in a business suit; he had obviously come straight from the State Department. He kissed Logan on the cheek.

  Logan introduced the two of them. “Jerry here is tonight’s pianist. He’s been playing stuff by gay composers all night. And I didn’t even have to ask him.” He grinned like a schoolboy.

  Rob shook Jerry’s hand. “You’ll get used to Logan in time: a militant shutterbug. Go figure.”

  Logan wasn’t amused. “I’m afraid you won’t have time for that.” He glanced at Rob. “Bulvania, remember.” He explained briefly for Jerry’s sake. Then he put an arm around him. “I don’t suppose you want to come with me, do you?”

  “To Bulvania? I—I—er—I have to meet my grandmother at the skating rink. Or something.”

  Rob got between them. “I’m going to check out the rest of the exhibition. I’ll catch up with you later.” He gave Logan a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd.

  Jerry glanced at his watch and announced he was due back at the keyboard. Logan looked around the room; everyone else was preoccupied, either socializing or studying the photos.

  The crowd was large and a lot livelier than Logan expected. He scanned them and picked out a few familiar faces—no one he wanted to schmooze—but most of them were unknown to him. He ambled into the main gallery and watched the go-go boys. Both were in their early 20s, both had fantastic gym bodies, a bit over-muscled for Logan’s taste.

  Paul Kaufmann found Logan and gave him a quick hug. “This is terrific—one of the best events we’ve ever had. Everyone’s having a fantastic time. Better yet, we’ve already sol
d six of your photos—and at really good prices.”

  “That’s great, Paul. My father’s always complaining that I don’t make any money at this. That’ll show him.”

  “Capitalist.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s genetic.”

  Paul took a long drink. “You’ve been watching Ron and Don.”

  “Who?”

  “Our dancers. Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  “They’re not really my type. I’ve never been one for the muscle-boy type. I prefer guys a bit slimmer.” He put on an impish grin. “But they’d do.”

  Paul grinned back, and it was almost a leer. “You’d be amazed what they’d do.”

  “I doubt that, Paul.”

  They both laughed.

  From out of nowhere Marge appeared. She was dressed to the nines and had obviously had one glass of wine too many. “Logan, dear! Congratulations!”

  Logan introduced them. “Marge is my dad’s personal assistant. He relies on her for everything.”

  Paul looked her up and down. “We haven’t met before, but I swear you look familiar.”

  “That’s her portrait over there, with her girlfriend.”

  “Ex-girlfriend,” she corrected him.

  “Ah, I knew I had seen you someplace.”

  The evening was getting late, and the crowd was thinning. By closing time the gallery was practically empty. The band was getting slow; they had been playing for hours. The go-go boys were also losing steam, and they were covered with sweat. Logan watched them jump down from the tables they had danced on and wondered where they got all their energy; they weren’t much younger than him, and he knew he could never have kept up with them.

  Jerry folded down the cover on the keyboard, gathered up his sheet music into a portfolio and crossed to Logan; holding out his hand. “It’s been great meeting you, Logan. I hope our paths cross again.”

  “Not unless you get a gig in Bulvania, they won’t.” Logan started to shake his hand, then paused for a moment and kissed him instead. “Thanks for all the great music.”

  Jerry was caught by surprise. “My pleasure.” He glanced around to make sure no one was looking. There was no one else in the room but the two dancers, both toweling off. He caught hold of Logan’s shirt, pulled him close and kissed him back. Long and hard.

  Logan kissed him again, and in an instant they were locked in passionate embrace. Then he felt someone’s hand on his back. He broke off kissing Jerry to see who it was. The red-haired dancer was there. He had stripped of his jockstrap and was completely nude except for his sneakers—and sporting a huge erection. “You guys are really going at it.”

  “Yeah, I guess we kind of are.” Logan wasn’t sure how to react to the situation.

  The dancer looked them both up and down, grinned and said, “Mind if I join in?” Without waiting for an answer he kissed Logan, then Jerry. The two of them caught each other’s eye and smiled broadly. In an instant the three of them were intertwined, kissing, fondling, groping, stroking. Jerry peeled his jacket and shirt off, and his naked chest was magnificent.

  The other dancer, the dark-haired one, was watching them from across the room. Before long he stripped off his jock and joined them. In no time the four of them were kissing, fondling, groping, stroking. The dancing redhead—was he Don or Ron?—dropped to his knees and started sucking Logan’s cock. The other one took the cue and did the same to Jerry.

  From nowhere, seemingly, Rob strolled into the room. Seeing what was going on, he made a beeline for the hot quartet. “I see the party’s not over.” He, Logan and Jerry kissed, then Jerry bent down and started to service Rob.

  Paul came in, paused at the door, grinned and said, “You know you’re a successful host when your guests don’t want to leave unless you prod them.”

  Logan laughed. “Wait five minutes. There’ll be plenty of prodding going on here.”

  Paul joined the group, bent down and started rimming one of the dancers. In very short order their intertwining became intense and passionate. Each of them was lost in the sextet’s sexual aura. Tongues and fingers probed, hands fondled and explored.

  In the midst of it, Logan whispered to Rob, “I thought you said it was over between us.”

  “This isn’t just between us, Logan. Do a head count.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of head to go around.”

  Paul got a handful of condoms out of his pocket, and in a flash everyone was fucking. Ron or Don screwed Logan. Don or Ron fucked Rob, and Rob and Logan kissed while it was happening. Jerry topped Paul. There were more and more groans and moans of pleasure, and they kept getting more intense. Everywhere Logan looked or touched there was another lean, hot body. Finally, they all began to come, one by one, and the wave of passion peaked.

  Bodies were wet with sweat and come; the older guys were out of breath from the coupling. Paul had to lean against a table to catch his breath. Rob did the same. Jerry found his pants, got a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. But the two dancers were barely winded. They looked at the other men like they were from Mars. Finally they looked at each other, shrugged and left the room together, off to find their clothes. Logan watched them go. “Flaming youth.”

  Paul was still out of breath. “You’re kind of an apple-cheeked boy yourself.”

  Rob smiled. “Mom and apple pie, that’s our Logan.”

  “Be quiet, bitch.” He laughed. “I’m not apple-pie enough to be finished. Why don’t you come over here and kiss me again.”

  “You haven’t had enough?”

  “I’m going to Bulvania, remember? There’s no chance I’ll find anything like this there.”

  “Remember, Logan, we’re everywhere.”

  Paul sensed what was coming. “Ron! Don! Come on back.”

  And in a minute the hot scene was underway again. Fingers and tongues darted; cocks bulged. Don and Ron, as it turned out, had foot fetishes, and they happily kissed everyone’s feet. There was more sucking, more rimming, more moaning, more groaning. Positions were reversed; the men who had taken the bottom the first time took the top now. All six of the came together, in one massive wave of heat and passion.

  This time even the dancing boys were winded. Logan leaned on the edge of a table and watched the other guys recover. Yeah, he thought. Goodbye to all this. There’s no chance I’ll ever find this kind of passion in Bulvania. No chance at all.

  Chapter Seven

  The royal castle in Bulvania was a huge, dark, looming structure. Towers soared, buttresses flew, all of them darkened—almost blackened—by the centuries. If you were filming a Harry Potter movie and you wanted to go on location rather than use special effects, it would be your first choice for Hogwarts. It sat on a low rise just east of the capital city, Flausenthurmopolis, and it had a splendid view of the coast and the Black Sea. Due to its position it was, technically, open to attack. But since no other country had ever bothered to invade Bulvania, no one saw that as a problem.

  The barracks for the Royal Guards was behind the main building and, since it was built in the 16th century rather than the 14th, it was younger and more modern (or at least what passed for modern in Bulvania). It was a huge, sprawling place, much larger than was needed to house the 62 men of the Royal Guard. There were private quarters for Captain Alexander Borodenko and his junior officers, and a huge dormitory for the privates. A common room, filled with plush old furniture, served for recreation for the entire corps, and there was a gym, a swimming pool, a mess hall, all the amenities an elite corps could need. The barracks had its own walled courtyard where the men could exercise on warm, sunny days. Over the main door carved deep into the stone, was a legend proclaiming that the building was named in humor of Frederick the Great, the famous king of Prussia.

  Early one summer afternoon, Captain Alex Borodenko walked into the common room, obviously exhausted from some activity or other, and collapsed into a huge, overstuffed chair. Brilliant sunlight poured through the windows. He sighed, “My God, they�
��re still at it. Arguing like fishmongers over a ripe haddock.”

  The other men were engaged in various activities—chess, fencing, ping-pong and whatnot. Four guards, stripped to the waist, wrestled on a pair of mats at one side of the room; among them was Lieutenant Evgeny Petrovich. Four more, likewise shirtless, practiced their swordsmanship. Most of them ignored their captain and went right on with what they were doing.

  The only one who paid Alex any mind at all was Lieutenant Peter Skonsin. “Excuse me for asking, but shouldn’t you still be there, then?”

  He made a sour face. “If I had listened to them one more minute my head would have exploded. I left Hans there. He’ll bring us news of any developments. The way they’re going at it, it could take them years to decide.”

  “You should be more respectful, Alex. Our Privy Council does not argue. They discuss.”

  “Well, they’re ‘discussing’ at each other’s throats.”

  “Electing a new king is important. We can’t expect them to do it in the blink of an eye.”

  “There’s no selecting to be done, Peter, and you know it as well as I do. Brother Juniper, er, Raymond von Flausenthurm, is the only member of the royal bloodline left. At least, he’s the only one fit for anything more than raising turnips.”

  Nearby, two of the wrestlers, both covered with sweat, heard this exchange. One was Sergeant Petrovich. They stopped what they were doing and took a step toward Alex. Evgeny asked, “Then what is there for them to argue about, sir?”

  “You know our nobles. If they couldn’t find anything else to bicker about, they’d complain that there aren’t enough fossilized toads in the coal.”

  Peter and the men laughed. “They can be pretty disagreeable, alright. Wealth and privilege do that to a person.”

  “And with something as important as the royal succession at stake, they’ll be even worse than usual.” Alex shook his head sadly. “For nearly a thousand years the Flausenthurms have ruled Bulvania. We may soon see all that history, all that tradition, come to an end. A new king from a new bloodline may even decide the Royal Guard is not needed.”