by Greg Herren
And of course, it became a scandal, a cause célèbre, parents complaining about the sexuality of it all being too much for the girls in his target audience. Apologies were made, it was claimed to be an accident, MTV talking heads debated whether he was just that gifted a dancer to keep going despite the wardrobe malfunction or if it had been planned.
Defiantly, he dropped his pants again at the MTV Music Awards performance to a standing ovation from the audience, claiming in his thick South Boston accent it was now a “free speech” issue.
But it wound up becoming as much of a gimmick as him not wearing a shirt. He had a couple more hits, some videos in heavy rotation, but his star was already sinking. There was that minimal talent thing, and he got some shade from other performers who basically said he was nothing but a glorified male stripper. Jase didn’t care—he loved seeing Billy dancing on his television in his underwear, surreptitiously buying all the teen magazines with the tear-out posters of Billy showing off his superb body. But like any controversy, it stopped being interesting and people stopped talking about him.
Billy Starr dropped his pants again, yawn, no big deal, did you hear what Madonna did on her tour?
By the time the second album was released, his audience had grown up and moved on to rappers or grunge rockers, and that period of teen idolatry was over. Billy’s second album sank like a stone, disappeared without a trace, came and went with most people—other than Jase—not even noticing. His management team managed to get him an underwear modeling gig with a major design company, plastering his underwear-clad body over billboards and magazines. They also tried to keep the music career alive, selling him to his gay fans, booking appearances in gay clubs—where the audience chanted for him to drop his pants. Washed up before he turned twenty-one, Billy made some homophobic comments and there had been a backlash, canceled bookings, the underwear contract not renewed.
Billy Starr vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, just another flash in the pan, not even enough of a blip to make it into where are they now articles and shows.
When he paid his bill, the counterman said, “Enjoy your stay in Panzano, ignore Signora Agretti. Loco.” He made a circle with his index finger near the side of his head, smiling broadly.
Jase grinned back and nodded. “Grazie.”
He got his bags and checked into the hotel, determined to forget the old woman. The young woman working at the counter was friendly, her English good, and the view from his room on the second floor was stunning. The valley beyond the mountain slope Panzano-in-Chianti perched on was even more gorgeous than he’d thought from stealing quick glances from the car.
And the light…he understood the Renaissance so much better now.
How could you not being inspired to create more beauty when surrounded by it, the vivid colors? He could stare at the view for hours and never be bored.
Philip would have loved this light, he thought.
It almost felt like—Philip was there with him.
He shivered and pushed that thought away, reminded himself to forget the old woman. He texted Billy: I am heading down from the village now.
He drove around the triangle and headed down the one-way road, narrow as it headed down the side of the hill, the houses and buildings in the village pressed up against the sidewalk. He could see the sharp drop-off in the small spaces between buildings, where cars were parked on the dirt. He reached a stop sign, with arrowed green signs pointing to Siena in one direction and Firenze in another. The directions here were to turn right.
This road, which was a two-way, seemed even narrower than the one-way through town. He hoped he didn’t meet an oncoming car. There was an enormous stone wall on his right, a lower one on the other side, barely enough room for two cars to squeeze past each other. Those walls have been there for hundreds of years, he thought, marveling at the view of what looked like miles and miles of vineyard to his left in a small valley. He was so focused on the road and the view he almost missed the turn. He slammed on the brakes, forgetting to engage the clutch, and the Fiat jerked a few times before stalling.
Idiot, he swore. The directions clearly said the sign would appear suddenly after the stone wall on the left ended; he should have slowed down. The sign wasn’t large; just a white post with a board painted white with Villa Stella carved into it, the letters painted red. The lip of the paved road hid the gravel road from view; in the far distance he could see it climbing a hill on the opposite side of a vineyard. He started the Fiat and turned, the bottom of the car scraping on the gravel. The road sharply angled down, at an almost sixty-degree angle. Enormous trees lined the inside of the stone wall, so the small grassy area to his left was completely shaded. Another gravel road went off to his left, just past the grass.
This, per the instructions, was the driveway for Villa Stella.
He drove slowly along the gravel driveway. Behind another tall hedge on the left was a parking area, with the three enormous recycling bins mentioned in the directions. He parked next to a black Mercedes. The driveway continued up to the enormous stone house. Just past the recycling bins was an opening in the middle of a weathered wooden fence. A path was worn into the grass from the parking area to the opening. He locked the car, stretched and yawned again, his heart beating faster.
Maybe it was just the cappuccino, or the excitement of meeting his former teen idol in the flesh.
Don’t make an ass out of yourself.
He could see the sparkling blue water of a swimming pool before he reached the opening. As he stepped through the fence, he could see a man lying on a deck chair in the sun wearing nothing but a very tiny black Speedo and sunglasses.
Jase felt like a little starstruck preteen again. He hesitated, almost afraid to make his presence known.
It was ridiculous, he knew. He’d worked for Street Talk magazine now for over fifteen years; had interviewed far bigger names than Billy Starr before. Britney and Madonna and Meryl and Beatty and Nicholson and Jagger, just to name a few.
And yet a two-hit wonder at best from the early 1990s was the one who made him forget his journalistic ethics and his professional distance, who awed him and turned him into a tongue-tied closeted little twelve-year-old gay boy again.
Billy was becoming newsworthy again, worthy of a feature in Street Talk magazine because he’d made a movie, after about twenty years out of the spotlight. A low-budget art film, made by an up-and-coming young American director who’d won an Oscar for a short film a few years ago, filmed in Florence starring some unknowns the director knew from film school. Billy was the biggest name in the movie (if you could say he still had a name) but both he and the movie were getting positive buzz from screenings at some smaller film festivals.
It had been picked up by a major distributor in the United States, and now, people were talking about Billy Starr again.
There was even some Oscar buzz. Sure it was early, but Oscar talk was still Oscar talk.
A possible comeback for the mostly forgotten former teen idol was a story that Street Talk’s readers might find interesting.
At least, the editor-in-chief thought so.
Being called into Valerie Franklin’s office was rarely a good thing. As he walked from his desk to her office, he wondered if he’d done anything that might get him fired. Sure, he’d just been phoning it in a bit after Philip died, but…
“You’re going to Italy, aren’t you?” Valerie Franklin asked after he shut her office door behind him. She wasn’t looking at him—she never looked at anyone she was speaking to—never taking her eyes off her computer screen. That was Valerie—no greeting, no hello, no how are you—just straight to the point.
She didn’t believe in wasting time on niceties.
“Yes,” he’d replied cautiously. Valerie was a notoriously tough boss, wasn’t above making an employee cancel a vacation to take an assignment. “I leave in two weeks.”
“You’re going to…?”
“Flying into Pisa, but spending most
of my time in Florence and Venice.”
He felt a bit of a nervous chill when she smiled, looking at him over the top of her glasses, making eye contact with him for maybe the fifth time in the fifteen years he’d worked for her. “Pisa? Perfect. Forward your ticket invoice to accounting and we’ll reimburse you for it. You’ll need a rental car as well; talk to Travel and have them make the arrangements for you. You’ll be making a side trip to a village in Chianti—for a few days—and Travel will find you a hotel; we’ll foot the bill for that, of course. You’ll interviewing Billy Starr, have you heard of him? Do some research.” She pressed her intercom button. “Sandy, forward that email from Billy Starr’s agent to Jase, will you, and email him to let him know Jase will be doing the interview and will follow up for directions and so forth.” She let go of the button. “We’ll cut you a stipend check to pay for expenses and so forth.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and turned back to her computer.
For once, she’d done him an enormous favor. His trip was now pretty much covered—he’d planned on taking the train from Pisa to Florence, but driving wasn’t a huge imposition or change in plans—and what was a few days’ work if it got most of his vacation expensed to Street Talk?
A great bargain, that’s what.
Had she known what a thrill it was for him to get to meet Billy Starr, even after all these years, she probably wouldn’t have given him the assignment, even though he was already going to Italy. Then again, why tell her, open himself up to her scornful glance, the cutting comments she would have made?
She was a great editor, but a lousy person.
Maybe it wasn’t ethical to not tell her he’d been a huge fan of Billy during the brief flare of his career. He still had a poster of Billy from his underwear spokesmodel gig, recovered from the Macy’s at the mall where his sister worked. She’d grabbed one for him when Billy had been replaced by another model and the posters were being discarded.
He’d held on to it for year before finally having it framed and mounted; it still hung on the wall of his apartment.
Philip thought it was cute the way he held on to his childhood celebrity crush.
And now, all these years later, he was standing just a few scant yards from Billy Starr, his tanned skin glistening in the bright Tuscan sun, wearing a bikini that barely covered the bulge Jase remembered so vividly, so clearly, from those underwear ads, Billy’s body still as perfect and muscular and defined as it has been when he’d posed.
He flashed back to when he’d first seen Billy on his television set, gyrating and dancing, transfixed, unable to look away from the vision of masculine beauty on the screen. How often had he fantasized this moment, seeing Billy in person wearing even less than he had in the underwear campaign, close enough to touch and smell him?
He snapped out of his reverie when a shrill, high-pitched scream pierced the air.
Startled, he flinched, looking up at the wall of green vine. It sounded primal, a scream of terror from deep inside the soul.
His heart was pounding so hard he almost didn’t hear his name being said.
“Jase?”
Jase turned. Billy was sitting up on the lounge chair, his handsome face relaxed into a smile. “You must be Jase Worth,” he said, getting to his feet and walking toward him, his hand stretched out in front of him. He moved gracefully, the muscles in his body rippling, the bikini—don’t look down, whatever you do, don’t look down.
“Yes, I’m Jase, and you’re Billy, of course. What was that scream? Should we call the police?” Billy was shorter than Jase had thought he would be, maybe five seven, smelling of sweat and musk and coconut oil. They shook hands. Billy’s hand was slick with oil and sweat, warm, his grip strong. Beads of sweat decorated his oiled skin. There was some slight black razor stubble on his muscular chest, a trail of curly black hairs leading from his navel down to the tiny bikini. His legs were also smooth, the thick upper legs bulging over the kneecaps, the thick calves mapped with blue veins. His thick dark hair had a slight curl to it but was slicked down to the scalp by either sweat, water, or oil.
Billy shook his head. “There’s a mental hospital up the mountain.” He gestured with his head. “St. Dymphna’s.” He shrugged, the muscles in his shoulders flexing under the skin. “Sometimes, when they let their patients out in the yard, one of them screams. It takes some getting used to.” He laughed, his perfect white teeth flashing. “It doesn’t happen all the time. I barely even notice anymore.”
“Good to know.” Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down. “Thanks for agreeing to the interview.”
“Street Talk was always good to me.” He gestured for Jase to follow him, and he started walking back toward the pool. The bikini had ridden up over the tanned butt cheeks, and Jase tried not to stare. “So, I figured, when people started showing some interest in me again, why not? Valerie still the same ballbuster she was twenty years ago?”
They walked past the pool. Enormous stepping stones were set in the grass, leading to the house. “She’s definitely a ballbuster,” Jase replied. On the other side of the gravel driveway an enormous vineyard spread across the wide valley. “Is that your vineyard?”
“Oh, no.” Billy smiled at him, dimples deepening in his cheeks. “I just own this small strip of land here, with the house. Everything on the other side of the driveway belongs to the Agrettis.” He pointed, the triceps muscle in his arm tightening. “That building in the distance is where they make their wine. It’s quite good. All the local wines are good.”
“Agretti?” That was the name of the old woman at the café.
“Oh, God. Don’t tell me you’ve already encountered Signora Agretti?” Billy frowned. “The old bitch hates me. Let me guess—did she tell you I killed her granddaughter?”
“What?”
Billy waved his hand and rolled his eyes. “Her granddaughter, Isabella. She worked for me here for a while…she became obsessed with me. I never touched her. I finally had to let her go. And she killed herself. The old woman blames me.” He scowled. “You have no idea how hard it was for me to find someone else who’d work for me. Thank God for Lucia.”
They’d reached the door to the house. As Billy opened the door and walked inside, Jase hesitated. “No, she didn’t mention anything about that…”
“Oh, that’s a relief. Poor Isabella. I felt bad, of course but what could I have done?” He shook his head. “I hope you’re not going to put that in your story!”
“Well, no, I don’t see how it’s relevant.” Maybe to a scandal sheet.
“But she clearly said something that’s upset you.”
He’s not good for you. There is danger here.
“She acted like…” How could he put it into words? “I mean, she doesn’t like you, but it was more about…I don’t know, like she could see.” He paused. “I lost someone,” he finally said. “About a year ago. She made it sound like she could see that person?”
“People in the village think she has second sight, if you believe in that sort of thing.” Billy shrugged. “Come on inside, we’ll have some wine. Some Agretti wine.” He laughed. “They do make good wine.”
Jase stepped into the cool inside. The floor was stone. A small wooden table and some chairs stood off to the left side, and a door on the right with stairs led down to a room at a lower level. There was another flight of stairs just beyond. Billy picked up a robe from one of the chairs and put it on, tying the belt at his waist.
“I don’t know if I should have wine,” Jase demurred. “I’m driving.”
“You can just leave the car here and walk back, if you get a little buzz going.” Billy descended down a short flight of stairs to a kitchen. Cloves of garlic hung from a hook above the sink. The window had a terrific view of the backyard and the pool. There was another wide window with a stunning view of the vineyard. “It’s not that far, definitely walkable. I walk into the village all the time.” He opened the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of
white wine. He grabbed a corkscrew, and in a few twists of his wrist it popped out of the bottle. “Is this your first time in Italy?” he asked as he filled two glasses.
Jase nodded. “It’s so beautiful here. The drive from Pisa…wow.” Yes, you’re a brilliant conversationalist. “Wow” pretty much sums up Italy.
“Let’s sit in the living room.”
Jase followed him back up the stairs. The living room was just beyond the steps to the kitchen. There was an enormous fireplace, and a big stone spiral staircase in the center of the room. On the far side was another door, and enormous windows. Billy sat down on the L-shaped couch and put his wine down on the coffee table.
Jase sat at the opposite side of the couch from him.
“Valerie told me you’re gay, Jase.” Billy laughed. “Just so you know, reports of my homophobia were greatly exaggerated.” He took a healthy sip of wine. “I should have apologized. I was an idiot. And no, I’m not going to try to pretend like it was taken out of context or anything. I said it, I have to own it, and I need to apologize to the gay community.” He crossed his legs, the robe falling open. “I think this interview is a good start to making amends. Everything’s on the table for this interview. I have nothing to hide.” He laughed. “So, yes, I suppose if you want to put Isabella Agretti into your story, I guess you should.”
Your bikini certainly isn’t hiding anything, Jase thought, trying to not look at Billy’s crotch, at the exposed abs, the deep cleavage.
Don’t look down, don’t look down…
But there was a voice whispering inside his head, he knew you were gay, he knew you were coming, and this is how he dressed to meet you…
Maybe he just wasn’t modest. He’d modeled underwear, for Christ’s sake. Maybe he was trying to prove he wasn’t homophobic. European men thought nothing of wearing Speedos, of showing off their bodies, no matter what kind of shape they were in.
Maybe he wore a bikini because he was proud of his body and wanted to get as much of his body tanned as he could.
