The Virgin King

by John Michael Curlovich

  She was her usual sardonic self. “So, you don’t really want all those tin billions.”

  “Be quiet.”

  * * *

  Farther down the boulevard, Logan found an ideal vantage point. It was an old-fashioned, cast-iron lamppost, painted jet black. It must have been from the 1800s; it was all elaborate art nouveau spirals and curlicues; and it was perfect for climbing. All the other posts along the street were newer; he wondered why they hadn’t replaced this one, too, but who knew? He told himself it probably had something to do with another of their damn fool traditions, shinnied up and found a secure spot with a good foothold, being careful not to damage any of the three cameras he wore around his neck.

  He could just make out the entrance to the cathedral. Two lines of royal guards formed an aisle leading from the huge bronze door down a flight of low steps to the royal carriage, a large white thing with brilliant gold trim. The guards’ polished brass helmets gleamed almost as brightly, and their huge plumes blew in the morning breeze. A crowd of Bulvanians had formed at the bottom of the steps, people eager to be among the first to see their new king.

  He put a telephoto lens on one of his cameras to get a better look. He could just make out Peter and Evgeny among them, as well as a lot of the other guards he’d gotten to know. Their dress uniforms were tailored—Peter boasted that they used the best tailor in Flausenthurmopolis—and showed off their gorgeous builds perfectly. Even the buttons on their uniforms glistened brilliantly, and the bright red and green seemed almost incandescent in the morning sunlight. He couldn’t wait for the parade to start so the guards could get even closer to him. He was certain to get some terrific shots of them.

  He could also make out the V.I.P box, and he was pleased that his father looked so completely miserable. Maybe word would get back to Washington and he—and his official photographer—would be recalled.

  After a few minutes there was a flurry of activity at the cathedral door, and he knew the coronation had ended and the parade was about to begin. A handful of officials and nobles poured and took places in a line, waiting for the newly-crowned king. The guards stood stiffly at attention. Seeing them, seeing their beautiful bodies and their perfect posture aroused him. He hoped it didn’t show and looked around self-consciously. But all eyes were on the cathedral and the king.

  Queen Theodora, accompanied by Count Schlutow, swept grandly out of the church and down the steps to their waiting carriages.

  And then… and then he saw someone else come out. Somehow the world’s scraggliest hippie had gotten inside. The guy was on the short side, thin, maybe even scrawny—it was hard to tell through the brown robe he was wearing. His hair was long and wild, and he had a full beard that looked like several wild birds had nested in it. At his side was an older man, dressed identically. Just behind them Archbishop Defilippo emerged, dressed in spun gold vestments and dripping with jewels, walking slowly but magnificently, nodding to the people, clearly lapping up their attention.

  The guards saluted. Logan strained, trying to catch a glimpse of the king, but the crowd was too thick. Then to his astonishment that hippie kid walked down the cathedral steps and climbed into the royal carriage.

  What?! Could this societal dropout be the new king? Logan was sure the guards would pull him unceremoniously out of the carriage that was obviously meant for the king.

  But instead they formed two lines on either side of the carriage and prepared to march alongside it. And just like that, Prince Charming turned into a guy from ZZ Top. Logan’s heart sank in a way it never had before. Oh well, he told himself, it was a nice dream; it lasted almost a day.

  There were still the guards. Beautiful men, perfectly dressed. The royal parade began to move. Logan quickly checked his cameras and lenses. This was an opportunity not to be missed.

  The parade drew nearer and nearer. He could make out more and more details of his friends/playmates/bedmates the guards. His attention focused squarely on them; he did his best to ignore the unattractive king they served.

  After minutes of slow progress, they finally reached his position. He switched cameras quickly, almost furiously, using every lens from telescopic to fish-eye. In their uniforms they looked magnificent. Whoever their tailor was had done a perfect job. Their white trousers showed the bulges in their crotches perfectly, even stunningly. Hanging at the top of his pole, Logan had a furious erection.

  Finally, the carriage and its attendant guards were directly opposite him. The carriage was as close to him as it would get. So were the guards. He snapped one picture after another of the beautiful, irresistible men in their perfectly fitted uniforms.

  And—

  And in his carriage, looking about and waving humbly to his subjects, Raymond suddenly froze. There, hanging on a light post, was the most beautiful man he had ever seen. And he was snapping pictures, his camera pointed right at the royal carriage, most certainly pictures of Raymond himself.

  Raymond peered. He had seen this man before. He couldn’t be certain, but—but wasn’t this the man he had seen in the guards’ barracks that night, naked, erect, having sex? He had never gotten a good look at the man’s face, but everything else, his hair, his frame, looked exactly right. This had to be him. And even if he wasn’t… this man was just perfection in Raymond’s eyes. He felt himself getting hard, and he was grateful his robe would cover it up. And he’s taking pictures of me, Raymond thought. He must find me as irresistibly attractive as I find him. He must. He must!

  Chapter Sixteen

  The American party stopped at the embassy before heading to the palace. Like his father, Logan balked at wearing the full formal diplomatic costume of morning coat, striped pants and silk top hat. Unlike his father, he had put his foot down and flat-out refused. It was bad enough wearing a suit and tie. Since he wasn’t actually the ambassador but only an embassy employee, he got away with it.

  Before they left the embassy Constantine came to his room to inspect him. Logan bristled. “What makes you think I need to be inspected?”

  And Constantine fussed. “It is my duty to make certain proper protocol is observed in every detail. There should be a dimple in your necktie.” He reached up and started arranging Logan’s tie to his satisfaction.

  Logan slapped him away. “Stop that. From what I’ve seen of the king, I don’t plan on getting close enough for him to notice whether my tie has a dimple or not.”

  “Others will notice.”

  “Let them.”

  Constantine turned seductive or at least tried to. Softly he cooed, “Would it help if I offered to give you a blowjob?”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “No, Logan, I—”

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  The official colors of Bulvania, for reasons no one could fathom, were orange and purple. The throne room was decked out with heaps of bunting in those colors, plus a generous number of Bulvanian flags—a two-headed nuthatch on a field of orange and purple stripes. It didn’t make for an attractive scene at all, and Logan was more than glad that he had been told not to bring his cameras to the formal reception ceremony.

  Logan stood at the entrance to the throne room, appalled at the clashing colors that were on display in such abundance. He sneered at Constantine, “You were worried about the way I’m dressed—for this?!”

  “Protocol and tradition demand—”

  “Screw protocol. Screw tradition. Screw everything.”

  “Please, Logan.”

  P.T. was still in his ambassador’s costume, and still unhappy about it. He kept tugging at his collar, trying to loosen it. Constantine had to keep a wary eye on him to make certain he’d look all formal and proper when he was presented to his majesty. Marge had changed into a crisp, neatly-tailored gray business suit. She was the only one of the three Constantine approved of.

  * * *

  Tradition ruled in Bulvania even more firmly than the king did. And one of those traditions was the throne. I
t was carved from a solid block of black stone that had been carved sometime during the last Ice Age and used ever since. But the king liked it, and tradition was tradition.

  When Raymond had first sat in it, several days earlier, Alex was sure he wouldn’t like it at all. But Raymond surprised him. “I believe in mortifying the flesh. Sitting on this is almost as good as wearing a hair shirt. Besides, it’s kind of comfortable.”

  “Uh… if you say so, your majesty.”

  So when time came for the formal ceremony of receiving the ambassadors, he was only too happy to sit on it; he assumed his position and sat there beaming at everyone in the hall. Alex took his place beside the throne and stood stiffly, formally at attention.

  P.T. and his party were fourth in line, after the ambassadors from Russia, Italy and Germany; Bulvania had ancient ties to all three of them. He muttered to Logan, “It’s a miniature version of World War II.”

  Constantine shushed him. “Please, Mr. Ambassador. We must try to be more diplomatic.”

  “I won’t be surprised if someone tries to invade Poland.”

  “Sir!”

  “At least the French are behind us.”

  Logan grinned. “I’ve always loved rear French.”

  “Calm down, all three of you.” Marge was amused. “We’re here to do a job, remember?”

  All three of them glared at her but were prevented from carrying on with their bickering by the Bulvanian military band, which struck up the Bulvanian national anthem. It sounded suspiciously like, “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” played with all due military pomp. The sound of it dispelled the tension in the air; they relaxed and took up their place in the ambassadorial procession.

  The king sat on his throne, to all appearances quiet and confident, surveying his subjects and the various diplomats calmly. Alex Borodenko, in full dress uniform, but helmet-less, stood at his side, ready to prompt him with what he needed to know and say to appear like an in-charge monarch. Everyone knew that he was no such thing; but the art of diplomacy is the art of remaining tactfully silent about eve the most obvious things. Ten feet to one side, Queen Theodora sat on a smaller throne, looking icy and imperious. She was being ignored, for the most part, and she didn’t try to disguise how unhappy she was.

  The ambassadors from the various nations began their march down the long center aisle to the throne. P.T. assumed what he hoped was a dignified attitude and stepped off. The assembled crowd watched them solemnly, soberly; this might have been the most important royal court in the world. Logan noticed out of the corner of his eye a small boy with a slingshot mischievously taking aim at the various dignitaries as they filed past his position. Oh, please, please, PLEASE let him shoot somebody! he thought. But the kid was content to keep aiming his toy and not firing it, and the Americans moved past him.

  Logan’s gaze moved up the aisle to the throne. The thing looked horribly uncomfortable. How could anyone sit on that stone monstrosity for very long without growing hemorrhoids? The new king sat there, dressed in that same dirty brown monk’s robe, his hair long, wild and unkempt, his beard looking like a nightmare Brill-o pad. As they got closer, he thought, Well, at least he’s young. There may be hope for him yet—I guess.

  He glanced at the queen on her throne, and she was glowering at everyone in the hall. The she noticed Logan, and she stared at him fixedly. There might have been no one but the two of them in the palace. There was no smile on her face; her expression was more like a spoiled royal who had found a plaything. It made him uncomfortable, and he looked away.

  The Russians, the Germans and the Italians, each in turn, reached the throne, bowed and presented their credentials to the king.

  Raymond was bored, and he felt out of his depth, though he did his best to keep up appearances. Formal ceremonies that didn’t involve candles, incense and prayer books were something new to him. The first three ambassadors to reach him spoke French, the language of international diplomacy. Since he didn’t know the language, he just sat, smiled and nodded. At one point he whispered to Alex, “You don’t really need me, do you? You could have a marionette here.”

  Alex was wry. “What do you think kings are? And presidents too, for that matter.”

  “That is not what I need to hear today, Alex,”

  “Sorry, your majesty.”

  Raymond let his gaze drift idly along the line of ambassadors approaching him. And almost at once he picked out Logan. That photographer he had seen at the parade, that incredibly attractive man, that man whose mere appearance had given him an erection—what could he possibly be doing here?

  He leaned close to Alex. “That man—the strawberry blond in the line down there—who is he?”

  “Please, Raymond. Protocol requires that you focus on the person directly in front of you. Here comes the German ambassador.”

  Without quite meaning to, Raymond made his voice stern and commanding. He was already becoming kingly. “I asked you who he is.”

  Alex scanned the line. “Oh—that is Logan Bockwein, the son of the American ambassador.”

  “Logan Bockwein.” He seemed to find the name almost magical.

  “He is the delegation’s official photographer. I’m not certain why they need one, but that’s what he is.”

  Raymond’s mind was suddenly a thousand miles away. He and Logan were running hand in hand through a field of flowers, just like the lovers in a corny old movie. Then he snapped out of it. “Photographer. Yes, I saw him taking pictures during the parade. He took several of me.”

  It struck Alex as unlikely, but he kept a tactful silence.

  The line kept moving, and soon it was the turn of the American delegation to approach the throne. P.T. led. Constantine whispered urgently, “Remember, bow, don’t curtsy.”

  P.T. bowed and handed his packet of credentials to the king, who handed it to Alex without even glancing at it.

  “And may I present Constantine Boukaris,” P.T. said to the king, my charge d’affaires.” Constantine bowed, not curtsied, and P.T. went on. “This is my assistant, Margery Beckett. And this,” he said, beaming with pride, “is my son, Logan.”

  Suddenly for Raymond there was no one in the room but him and the young American. Defying every possible rule of protocol, ignoring P.T. and the rest of the party, ignoring everyone else present, he extended a hand to Logan. “It is a genuine pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bockwein.” He started to stand up but remembered himself and sank back into the throne.

  Logan was thrown off balance by it for an instant, but he quickly recovered himself. “Likewise, your majesty.” He shook the king’s hand.

  It was surprisingly warm. And the king didn’t seem to want to let go of him. Their handclasp lasted an uncomfortably long time. Finally, Logan managed to pull loose of the king’s grip and backed away a step. It was clear enough what the kind had on his mind, and the experience was more than a bit unsettling. Logan hadn’t been out for years, and he hadn’t met all kinds of men, without learning what was what.

  So King Raymond was a closet case. There was no doubt of it in Logan’s mind. And there was no mistaking what that lingering grip meant. This scruffy, bedraggled boy king wanted him. He knew it as surely as he knew anything. He looked around for an exit, trying not to be too obvious about it. The American party had finished their formal act for the king. They moved away. Logan found the nearest door and got the hell out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Raymond tried to persuade Abbot Beech to let him have all his scientific equipment moved down to the palace from the monastery, as well as all his books. The abbot was reluctant. “You have the riches of the entire nation at your disposal, Juniper. You can afford newer, better things than what we have at the monastery.”

  Before Raymond could answer, Alex stepped in. “You really must stop calling him that. He is no longer your Brother Juniper. He is Bulvania’s King Raymond XL.”

  “Juniper is the name he took when he swore loyalty to God and our order. Juniper he will alw
ays be.”

  “The world and history will know him as Raymond. That is sufficient for me. You do understand that he is king now, don’t you? Fully, legally king? With a wave of his hand he could have your monastery shuttered and take possession of everything in it.”

  The abbot winced and addressed Raymond directly. “So it’s to be threats, is it?”

  “No threats, abbot, none at all. I simply want my microscope and things.”

  They bickered back and forth for another few minutes, and the abbot finally agreed to let Raymond take the things no one else in the monastery was qualified to use. There weren’t many, but Raymond was happy nonetheless not to have to take sterner action against the place that had been his home for most of his life. The one thing he agreed to let them keep was his mountaintop telescope; it was too big, too unwieldy and too outmoded to be worth moving. Alex suggested building a new observatory at the top of the palace, and they agreed that would be best. But that encounter was the end of Beech’s short tenure as the king’s spiritual adviser.

  As the abbot was leaving, Raymond turned to Alex. “This being king isn’t shaping up the way I expected.”

  “You’ll learn, Raymond. Kings don’t ask and they don’t negotiate. They take what they want.”

  “You’re not describing kings, Alex. Those are despots.”

  “It’s a matter of proportion. Kings take the microscopes they want. Despots take everything in sight, and they kill anyone who opposes them.” He dropped his schoolteacher manner. “Besides, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’d make a poor despot. Despots wear tailored suits, not homespun robes.” He couldn’t resist adding, “So do most kings, for that matter.”

  Raymond ignored the little dig. “So, if there’s something I want, I just snap my fingers and it’s mine?”