by James Lear
My eyes were adjusting, and I could see Joseph looking up at me, dark-brown eyes gleaming, brow furrowed. What kind of life did he lead? Was he playing a part, the typical arrogant, young islander with his easy good looks and lazy disposition, all the while hiding his true nature, waiting for men like me to come along? Or did they see things differently in the south? Were things less black and white? I’ve fucked enough men to know that it’s not always a simple choice between queer and “normal”; plenty of us have a foot in both camps. Perhaps that was more acceptable in Malta and its islands. From the efficient way Joseph was sucking my dick—which was now fully hard and plunging into his throat—they got plenty of chance to practice.
I wondered how much further he’d go. I like a challenge, and the idea of bending Joseph over and fucking him in that rickety little hut was very appealing. Would that be a step too far? There are plenty of guys who will let you do anything with their mouths but are nervous as hell about their asses.
“Stand up.”
He did as he was told, holding onto my cock with his hand; now that he’d gotten it, he was in no hurry to let go. I pinched a tit and pulled him in, slipped a hand around to the back of his pants and squeezed a buttock.
“Get naked.”
He gasped, kicked his shoes off and undid his pants. He was wearing nothing underneath, which is either a Maltese custom or a sign that Joseph liked to be ready for action. From what I could feel he was good and hairy on his legs and ass. When he stood up again, his dick stuck straight out from his body; I grabbed it and pressed it against mine. Joseph’s knees buckled.
“You like that?”
“Yes.”
“You want my cock?”
“Yes.”
“You really want it?”
He said something in Maltese, which could have been an insult or a witty retort, but I chose to interpret it as “I want you to fuck me hard up the ass, but I’m too much of a ‘man’ to tell you directly.”
“Turn around.”
Obedient again—really, I don’t know what his father was complaining about. To me, Joseph seemed to be a diligent and enthusiastic worker. I pressed my hard cock between his cheeks and rubbed it up and down, enjoying the softness of the fur against my head and shaft. Joseph pressed back against me and spread his legs. If he came up here for regular fucks, I’m surprised the old hut was still standing.
I spat into my hand and slicked up the head of my cock—there was nothing else available, unless Joseph had a stash of Vaseline up here. I lined up with the target and pressed. He didn’t complain; I guess he was used to rough fucks. That suited me fine. He wouldn’t suffer for long; after the journey by land and sea from London to Xlendi my balls were full to bursting and needed relief. I was leaking clear, sticky juice in great quantities, a sure sign that I’ve got a big load to shoot. It was enough; I got the head in, and after letting him relax and breathe for a few moments it only took a little extra pressure for my whole cock to slip inside him. His insides were as smooth as silk, as juicy as a peach. Soon my pubic hair was mingling with his ass fur, and we were in business.
I like my men to enjoy being fucked, so I reached around to check that Joseph was still hard. He was, his dick pressing up against his stomach. That told me all I needed to know. If he was half as ready as I was, we’d be back down the cliff path in time for cocktails at the Continental.
But Jesus, I didn’t want it to be over. It wasn’t just his ass that felt good—it was his broad, muscular back and his hard, hairy thighs. It was the smell of beer and hair oil and sweat, the sound of his grunting and my own heavy breathing, the squelches and clicks as I plunged into his hole; it was the eerie cries of the seabirds around us in the cooling evening air, the distant hiss and roar of the sea. I felt my mind emptying of thought, filling up with pure sensation; I could even taste his lips on mine from that long, deep kiss. No more regrets about what I’d left behind, no more fear of a friendless future, just here and now in this ancient hut with a naked man and my cock inside him.
I heard myself groan before I realized that I was coming, emptying a huge load inside Joseph’s wet ass. His fist pumped as he bent over, shooting his own sperm onto the sand-worn timbers at our feet.
He was quiet when we’d finished, not making a sound even when I withdrew. I wiped my dick on a handkerchief and put it away; Joseph was still naked, and facing away from me.
I put a hand on his shoulder, damp with sweat. “You all right?”
He said nothing. The mask was slipping back into place. What now? Threats? Anger?
“Give me five dollars.”
Ah, that was it. He pretended to be a whore in order to hide his real desires. Not the first to do so, and not the last.
“Or what?”
“I tell the police.”
“What will you tell them exactly, Joseph? How you brought me up here? How you kissed me and sucked my cock? How much you shot when I fucked you up the ass?”
“I know the police here.” He still wouldn’t turn around and look at me. “My father knows them.”
“And what else does he know?” Silence. “Shall I tell him?”
He turned around now, still naked, his cock still half hard, swaying as he moved. “Please, no.”
“It’s okay, Joseph. Get dressed. Listen, to show there’s no hard feelings, I’ll give you five bucks. Not because you asked for it, and not because you threatened me, but because I said I’d pay you to be my guide. Besides, I might need someone with a bit of local knowledge while I’m here.” I was thinking ahead; every detective has a slightly more stupid sidekick, and mine have to be readily fuckable as well. “If you want my cock again, just ask. But no more blackmail. We don’t have to do that to each other.”
He said something like “Oh” or “Ah” and started kissing me again.
The job was his.
________
1 http://www.fodors.com/news/story_4117.html
III
I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING WITH A SORE HEAD—TOO MANY OF Martin Dear’s martinis—and a stiff cock, thinking about Joseph Vella’s silky, hairy arse. It had been a short evening: drinks with the other guests, a plate of delicious, freshly caught fish straight from the pan, a little stilted conversation with my fellow guests, and early to bed. There was no scent of mystery. Tilly and Martin Dear were the perfect hosts, friendly but not overly familiar. They asked politely about my plans; I told them I was meeting an old friend, and they nodded and smiled. Claire Sutherland was as horny as I was, albeit twenty or thirty years older; she dined with her new friend from the promenade and, presumably, took him to bed. The Jessops remained as dull and unbending as they had been on the ferry, ostentatiously refusing alcoholic drinks, nibbling their fish as if they feared poisoning, exchanging looks of distaste every time I tried to speak to them. The other guests—a mixture of Italian families and elderly Brits—kept to their own established groups. As a young, single American, I was the odd man out. I kept my ears open for any hint of scandal or hostility—I wanted, like Poirot or Miss Marple— to sense a crime before it happened, but there was nothing. I would have to look farther afield than the lounge of the Continental Hotel.
To that end, I rose and dressed early for my breakfast appoint ment with Frank Southern, who was due on the nine o’clock ferry. The sea was sparkling as I stood on my balcony, the sky a pristine pale blue. Out in the bay I saw a sleek wet head and strong white shoulders gliding through the water; Henry Jessop, I was fairly sure, was getting an early-morning swim before his parents started bossing him around. I made a mental note to follow him one day; for now I was sufficiently excited by the idea of seeing Frank again. Was he still as good-looking as he used to be? And what was the secret business he wanted to discuss? Would he like to come to my room and show me?
I took the rattling, smelly old bus across the island, passing herds of goats, ancient footsore crones, wild children playing in the dust— sights unchanged on the island for centuries. We reached the h
arbor just as the ferry docked.
My first glimpse of Frank Southern answered one question. In his short-sleeved white shirt and regulation pants, his cap pushed back on his head, he was just as beautiful as before. More so, perhaps: the sun had darkened his skin to golden brown and bleached the hair on his head and arms to the color of wheat. He stood at the top of the gangplank surveying the quay, and I had time to take in his flat stomach, his strong jaw and sturdy legs, before he spotted me.
“Mitch!” He sprang down the steps like a mountain lion and grabbed me with both arms. “It’s good to see you.” Southern was Scottish; we trained together for a while in Edinburgh. I’d forgotten what an effect those rolled Rs and shortened vowels had on me. Add to that his strong arms around me, his hard body pressed against mine, and you can figure out for yourself how I responded.
Frank stepped away before this became compromising, and held me at arm’s length.
“You look well, Mitch.”
I didn’t feel it; those martinis were getting their revenge, and the rigors of the journey were catching up with me. Compared to Frank Southern I felt haggard and exhausted—by life, by sorrow, by drink. However, the company of a handsome man always works wonders, and something of his glowing good health was reflecting on to me.
“Ready for breakfast? I’m starving.” He patted his stomach, which sounded as tight as a drum. “I’ve got an hour and a half before my clinic. Another morning looking at old ladies’ feet and old men’s arses. Oh well. The burden of the Empire.”
“I thought you just looked after the garrison at Valetta.”
“We have to show a bit of goodwill to the natives as well. It’s all politics, Mitch. If I can cut a few corns and reduce a few hemorrhoids among the civilian population, everyone’s happy.”
“Small price to pay for all those soldiers and sailors,” I said, checking Frank’s eyes for any hint of reaction. All he did was laugh.
“Same old Mitch,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. Frank knew all about me and accepted my preferences as he accepted my hair color. “You haven’t changed.”
“Not me. Have you?”
“Sorry, still normal.”
The word rankled a bit. I’ve never considered myself to be abnormal, and I’ve fucked enough “normal” men to know that the world isn’t quite as simple as Frank Southern implied. But I didn’t complain. At least Frank accepted our differences.
“So what’s the big mystery you wanted to discuss?”
“All in good time. Here.” He steered me into a waterfront cafe, a cluster of white metal tables and chairs under a green striped awning. “The best breakfast on the island.” A motherly woman in a black dress emerged from the darkness, arms extended. “Doctor Frank!” She squeezed him in an embrace and kissed both his smooth-shaven cheeks, the lucky girl. “My favorite man in the world! Look at me!” She stepped back, turning this way and that. “Would you believe it?” She was addressing me now. “Last year I could hardly walk my legs were so bad. Now I am dancing the Black Bottom!” She shimmied her ample black-clad posterior in support of her claim. “All thanks to my wonderful Doctor Frank!”
“Ulceration as a result of varicose veins,” said Frank in an undertone. “I gave her some support stockings. She thinks I’m a miracle worker.” Then aloud he said, “Ah, Mama Melissa! I’m so proud of you! You look ten—no, twenty years younger!”
Melissa simpered like a teenage girl and ushered us to a table. “Now, gentlemen, what can I get you?”
“Two of your delicious fry-ups, please. Tea for me, you know how I like it. And coffee for my friend. You still drink coffee?”
“Of course.”
“Wait till you try Mama’s coffee. It’s so strong it should only be available with a prescription.”
“Just what I need. Long journey yesterday.”
“Good, good,” she said, bustling off to the kitchen.
“And a skinful of cocktails at the hotel last night.”
“They’re looking after you, then? The Dears?”
“Very well, thank you. I’m grateful for the recommendation.”
“How long will you stay, Mitch?”
“Three weeks for starters. Maybe more. There’s no reason for me to rush back.”
“Oh.” He was about to ask something but thought better of it. He knew Vince, and he knew enough about my habits to assume the worst. I was in no mood to discuss it—or to admit to my failings. “Well, if you decide to hang about, we might find you an apartment somewhere. There are always locals who are happy to rent to visitors.”
As I discovered with Joseph in that clifftop hut, I thought. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
“It’s good to see you, Mitch,” said Frank, looking directly into my eyes. I thought for a moment he was about to make a declaration, but instead he said, “To be honest, I need your help.”
“What’s the matter? Not getting laid enough?”
He blushed—it was visible even through his tan—and frowned for a moment, two deep lines between his thick eyebrows, several shades darker than his blond hair. “Don’t you worry about me, Dr. Mitchell. I’m married to my job.”
“What a waste.”
Melissa returned with drinks, much to Frank’s relief. He was right about the coffee; it looked like molasses and tasted like heaven. Frank sipped his tea and stared out at the boats in the harbor.
“Back home,” he said at last, “you were involved in a couple of—I don’t know. Strange situations.”
“Crimes,” I said. “Murders, to be precise.”
“Exactly.” He turned back to face me. “And I believe you were in some way responsible for bringing the guilty parties to justice.”
“I helped,” I said, not yet ready to assume the arrogance of my idol, Hercule Poirot. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“And you asked the right questions,” said Frank.
“That’s what we learned in medical school.”
“Exactly. You ask the right questions based on your expert knowledge, and you are not afraid of what you might find.”
He was frowning again, obviously wanting to say something but unsure how to start.
“Go on. Don’t be shy.”
“I’m going to ask you to do something for me. You can say yes, or you can say no, I won’t mind. Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“You won’t be offended by my asking.”
“We’re old friends, Frank. Nothing you can say will offend me.” I tried to sound carefree, but my heart was pounding—and not just because of Mama Melissa’s lethal dose of caffeine.
“Right. Here goes.” Frank looked around to make sure we weren’t overheard. “A couple of years ago, a young soldier stationed at Valetta committed suicide on Gozo.”
“Ah.” There was a queer element to the case, obviously. That’s why he was asking me. Young soldiers don’t kill themselves unless they have something to hide. “Go on.”
“At the time, everyone accepted it at face value. There was a suicide note, and it appeared that the soldier was being blackmailed.”
“What about?”
Frank scratched his chin. “Not sure,” he said, “but these things tend to get hushed up. He was known to be…like you.”
“I see.”
“Some of the boys are. Some of the officers too, for that matter. Doesn’t bother me, but it’s against the law and they’re playing a dangerous game.” He shrugged. “Sometimes they lose.”
“But you’re not satisfied.”
“I don’t know, Mitch. I was. It’s sad, of course, but these things happen all over the world.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“I’m not saying they should. I’m saying they do, and it’s going to be a long time before that changes.”
Our breakfast arrived, huge oval plates full of bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms, with a rack of toast and a plate of butter. Frank made the appropriat
e remarks to Melissa, who left us in peace.
“So what’s changed, Frank? Why are you telling me all this?”
“Last year another soldier came to me suffering from insomnia, loss of appetite, fits of uncontrollable weeping, all the usual symptoms of neurosis.”
“And the connection?”
“He was a friend of the dead man.”
“More than a friend, I assume.”
“ Well…”
“Come on, Frank. If I’m going to help you, you’re going to have to be forthright. Talk to me as a doctor, not as a friend, if that helps.”
“Lance Corporal Edward Porter. That was the boy who died. I say ‘boy,’ but he was twenty-two years old. Not that much younger than us, but they seem like children, some of them who come out here. Full of life and hope and illusions. Innocent. Naïve.”
I didn’t ask Frank what had made him so disillusioned, but I stored it up for further investigation. “And his friend?”
“What would you prefer me to say?”
“Friend is fine.”
“Alfred Lutterall. Private. He’s twenty-two now; he was twenty when Ned Porter died. It seems to have broken him. He hasn’t told me as much, but they were clearly…” He hesitated for a moment, then said “lovers.”
“Does he think he’d get into trouble if he told you that?”
“He would put himself in a very vulnerable position. It would compromise me as well, if I failed to report him. So we’re going round and round the houses, avoiding the subject.”
“And that’s where I come in.”
“Officially, I’m bringing you in for a second opinion. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve represented you to my superior officers as a nerve specialist from London. I had a hell of a job persuading Major Telford to give me permission. He’s very keen to hush the whole thing up and send Alf Lutterall home as a mental case.”
