The Peter & Charlie Trilogy

by Gordon Merrick

  Charlie looked at him approvingly. “That’s my baby. I’d recognize him anywhere. Are you planning to get a drink like that?”

  “Drink?” Peter asked through laughter. “I just happen to’ve brought the stuff. The eternal optimist.” He snatched a tube from the bag and advanced to Charlie. As he did so, he watched the massive sex swing out straight from his thighs, lengthen thrillingly, swell, lift its darkly shining head.

  “You mean, the drink is going to have to wait?” Charlie’s brows rose devilishly, his smile was assured and possessive. He put a hand on the back of Peter’s neck and held it tight.

  “It sure is.” Peter reached out and took Charlie’s sex in his hand. It sprang up under his touch. “Oh, oh, oh,” he murmured. “I don’t think I’ll ever really believe it. I saw them all eyeing it this morning. If they could see it now, they’d faint dead away.”

  Charlie laughed. “I don’t remember you ever fainting.”

  “I might some day. I think it’s growing.” He squeezed the tube into the palm of his hand and began to apply lubricant. “It’s so hot and hard and enormous.”

  Charlie laughed again and put out a hand for some of the lubricant and ran it between Peter’s buttocks. His other hand stroked Peter’s sex.

  Peter growled deep in his throat and swayed against him and rested his forehead against the side of his head. “What are you going to do to me, mister?” he whispered. It was a private joke and laughter shook their bodies, exciting them further as they stood close against each other. Peter wanted Charlie’s hands on him, he wanted to feel the weight of his body bearing down on him, he wanted the great column of flesh inside him, raging through him, exploding into him. He wanted to be taken, used, totally possessed, as only Charlie could ever possess him. His legs began to tremble as Charlie’s hands teased him toward orgasm.

  “I think I’m going to come in about three seconds,” he said with a little giggle. “Take as long as you can, darling. Make me come twice. That’ll be heaven.”

  Not long afterward, the other members of the party heard groans of pleasure and muffled laughter issuing from behind the thin partitions of the Americans’ room. This was followed some time later by a succession of hoarse, triumphant cries.

  Guy looked across his room at Harry with a wry smile. “Really. After ten years. They must have been telling the truth. Lucky Peter. I’d say he’s getting quite spectacularly fucked. A pity you’re not so well equipped. There might be some excuse for you.”

  When the sounds began, Jean-Claude stamped around the room, flinging clothes about. As they continued, he sank onto the edge of the bed all huddled up in himself. Anne hummed a little tune in an attempt to cover what was taking place on the other side of the partition. At the cries, Jean-Claude tore his hands through his hair and burst into tears. He had recognized Peter’s voice. Anne went to him and stood over him and stroked his head soothingly.

  “He has told you how it must be,” she said.

  Madeleine and Genevieve were stretched out on their beds getting a moment’s rest. Genevieve sprang up angrily.

  “I must say—” she exclaimed. “I find it too disgusting. They might wait until they’re in their own bed.”

  “They’re Americans, dear.” Madeleine chuckled fruitily. “They lack our weary sensibilities. Did you look at Charles this morning? What can you expect, with such an instrument? There will always be somebody to play it.”

  The party reassembled under a grape arbor in the kitchen courtyard and drank pastis while Guy conferred intently with the untidy little cook-proprietor. Charlie and Peter were the center of all eyes, either envious or jealous or disapproving. The blond gods glowed with well-being. They all noticed Peter’s tendency to hug Charlie’s side. Guy soon cut between them and led Charlie into the midst of what was beginning to look like a witches’ orgy. A wood fire was blazing in an open stone hearth and a great iron cauldron was set on a grate over it. A good many assistants were milling about, presumably the proprietor’s family judging from their age span, tending the fire, carrying pots back and forth, chopping tomatoes and onions.

  “You see, it’s very important that it should be done very quickly just before we eat it,” Guy explained. He indicated a table where a quantity of gleaming headless fish were heaped up in several piles. “Some places, they cook the fish with their heads on. They are necessary for the flavor, but not pretty to see. Darius cooks them separately and adds the bouillon. A detail, but important.”

  Charlie’s eyes were held by patterns and forms. He turned instinctively to point something out to Peter, but Peter wasn’t there. It really was a bore being with others all the time. He politely gave his attention to Guy, who identified the great variety of sea creatures by their French names, the obscenely scarlet rascasse, the creamy-gray loup de mer, the congre, as well as langouste and spidery crabs and an odd little shellfish Charlie had never seen before.

  “We are eight,” Guy went on, totally absorbed in the operation. “There is no point in doing it for fewer. Otherwise, I’d have asked just you, With Peter, of course. At least a dozen varieties of fish are essential for it to be right.”

  The activity seemed to accelerate around them. Children were chopping herbs and smashing garlic in a mortar. Darius advanced on the fish with a long, murderous knife that looked homemade and deftly chopped the bigger ones into thick slices. The cauldron began to bubble fatly, making a thick plopping sound. A woman added wood to the fire. The bubbling grew more rapid, the cauldron began to sing. The kitchen brigade rushed at it, bearing pots and copper cans and flung their contents into it. Darius scuttled after them, adding a platterful of langouste and crab and slabs of fish.

  “There,” Guy said with a sigh of released tension. “It’s most important that all the fish not go in at once. Otherwise, half of them are overcooked. In exactly fifteen minutes we will eat.” He turned to Darius who was swabbing his brow with a great white rag. “La rouille est déjà préparée?”

  “Mais bien sûr, monsieur le comte. Tout est pret.”

  “Bien.” He turned back superbly to Charlie, a medieval prince regulating his household. “Now you will see. I’ve arranged all this just for you. After what I’ve just heard, I’m beginning to face the fact that I’m wasting my time, but no matter.”

  “What you’ve just heard?”

  “My dear!” Guy smiled a thin aristocratic smile. “Upstairs. Such an orgiastic hue and cry. Such groans of ecstasy.”

  Charlie blushed. “Oh, dear. You could hear us?”

  “Of course, but don’t look like that. It was a joy—vicarious certainly, but the imagination ran rampant. You and Peter don’t sometimes go in for group activities? Gang-bangs, I think you call them. I might be satisfied just to see you at play.”

  Charlie thought of his year alone in New York while Peter was in the Army and blushed again. “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “No? Ah, well, patience. I wish I could say that’s the motto of the Sainvals. Actually, it’s ‘The Devil Take the Hindmost.’ A rough translation. I don’t suppose you could be the devil?”

  Charlie laughed. “Are you the hindmost?”

  “Gladly,” Guy said with a suggestive smile.

  They mingled with the others as a last pastis was poured. Madeleine had taken charge of Peter. Charlie heard her rich voice pouring over him. “—at the party tonight, I must speak to Clo-Clo about you. But how absurb of me. I’m so stupid. I keep forgetting that you’re the Peter Martin. You look so sublimely young. How is one to believe that you’re also a very shrewd businessman?”

  Charlie avoided Anne and Jean-Claude and exchanged pleasantries with the rather discontented-looking young woman called Genevieve, about whom he knew nothing except that she seemed somehow attached to Madeleine. He felt her snub him, which intrigued him until he thought of what Guy had just told him. His jaw set with anger. Was she cutting him because he was a queer? What in hell did she think her host was? All his protective aggressiveness was aroused. Gran
ted, he and Peter should have thought of the possibility of being heard. They wouldn’t have abandoned themselves quite so completely if it weren’t for this awful enveloping atmosphere of sex. They weren’t queers like these others. They were two people who were in love with each other and had made a decent life for themselves. Just watch it, lady, he thought belligerently, prepared to attack if she made the slightest ambiguous or derogatory remark.

  In a few moments, Guy was herding them all in to lunch. “Àllons, mes enfants. A table. Nous sommes servis.” They filed into a dark, cool dining room, all blackened wood and copper, and gathered around the only table that had been set. Guy took Charlie’s arm and insisted he take the place of honor at his right. He let the others fend for themselves. Charlie saw Jean-Claude crowding close to Peter, but just as they sat, Anne cut in between them. Trying to save her brother from making a fool of himself? Taking over Peter for herself? No matter. He had no further worries on that score.

  A steaming tureen was borne in and ladled out, inspiring sighs and groans as the soup’s aromas were released. It was followed by platters of fish, which they spooned into the rich bouillon, which was in turn topped by thick, toasted slices of French loaf smothered in “rust,” the fiery rust-colored, garlic-laden rouille. There was a suspenseful pause as they all gazed at their brimming bowls and then Guy gestured to Charlie to begin as he took the first spoonful. They all followed suit, and there was a chorus of appreciative cries and greedy moans as the full impact of the superb mess struck them. They fell to in earnest and the only sound was the clunk of spoons against pottery and the smacking of lips. Anne broke the silence with sudden laughter and they all burst out laughing with her.

  “Quels cochons que nous sommes,” Guy announced delightedly.

  “It’s fantastic,” Charlie gasped as he came up for air. They began to chatter happily. They ate, and ate some more, washing it all down with beakers of a chilled rosé of Provence. As he reached his capacity, Charlie felt himself drifting into a contented, stupified lethargy. He glowed with the sun, and the memory of Peter’s body in his arms, and with whatever was taking place in his overfed stomach. The contented, inordinately healthy-looking group had finally achieved a sort of wholesome harmony. He smiled at Guy with an approximation of genuine affection.

  “You were right. It was perfect. You’re a prince among men.”

  “Aha! You see? I warned you. You will be seduced by the bouillabaisse.”

  When the dishes were removed and were replaced by a huge bowl of grapes and figs and peaches, he became vaguely aware that the harmony was dissolving. A preoccupied look had settled over Guy. The others shifted about restlessly and snatched at the fruit without eating it. As Charlie struggled back to a state nearer to consciousness, he remembered other meals with Guy and realized immediately what was up, although he was surprised that it was on the program here. He took a bunch of grapes and began to pop them lazily into his mouth. He saw Guy signal to Harry and then rise. “Well go prepare,” he announced. He looked down at Charlie. “You’re coming?”

  “I don’t know if I can move.”

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  Genevieve was already on her feet. Madeline followed more slowly until only Charlie and Peter and the Courtins were left at table. Charlie looked across at Peter. “Do you want to?” he asked.

  Peter shook his head.

  “But you must,” Jean-Claude broke in. “It will be bliss after the meal.”

  “Charlie doesn’t want to,” Peter pointed out. “I don’t either, particularly. It doesn’t do anything for us.”

  Peter glanced at Jeannot and saw the hurt disappointment in his eyes and was not immune to it. He felt much surer of himself since the glorious interlude with Charlie before lunch. He could afford to let the boy down gently without fear of repercussions with Charlie. He was working his way through this odd, unwanted episode without damage on any side. “Oh, well, what the hell,” he said, looking at Charlie, “I suppose we have our duty as guests. This is a big deal for Guy. I guess we’d better join the party.”

  They all rose, Charlie bringing up the rear. He was aware that Peter had allowed Jean-Claude to settle the question, but he knew how tiresome it could become to keep on running all the time when you were being pursued. A harmless sop.

  He trailed the others up the stairs and followed them into the room Guy was occupying. The lacquered box containing the pipes was already open on a table, the spirit lamp lighted and Harry was heating and shaping the glob of opium with miniature instruments. The others were stretched out on the beds. Guy beckoned to Charlie and took his hand and pulled him down beside him. He complied with Guy’s wishes in the same spirit he supposed Peter had given into to Jean-Claude. What harm could it do? “You should loosen your shorts,” Guy directed.

  “They’re loose enough,” Charlie propped himself against a pillow, only half-reclining, with one foot on the floor. Peter settled on the other bed and Jeannot immediately stretched out beside him. Anne took a place by Genevieve, who was watching Harry’s preparations with intent hungry eyes. The opium sizzled over the fire, and Harry dropped it into the little bowl of the long straight pipe and turned and offered it to the assembly. Guy waved a languid hand at Genevieve, who reached for it greedily and pulled on it with blind concentration. Harry returned to his flame. Charlie looked at Peter and their eyes met. They lifted their eyebrows slightly in an expression of the deep solidarity between them that set them apart from everybody else, complete in each other, indestructibly and happily alien. Charlie’s eyelids dropped contentedly; this could go on for some time, only two pipes for eight people and some of them used to four or five pipes at a sitting. When the next one was ready, Guy lifted his hand and touched his shoulder. From the way he moved, Charlie realized that Guy had already had his first.

  “For you,” he said dreamily. “It’s very fine. The best I’ve had for some time.”

  Charlie puffed dutifully, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs, wishing for something miraculous to happen. So far, nothing had. At least now he could go to sleep. He waited for the pipes to go the rounds, just barely awake, hoping that he looked as if he were in some sort of mystical trance. When the pipe came back to him, he waved it away. “No, I’m fine.” He pulled himself to his feet. “I’ve got to have a nap,” he said to no one in particular. He passed behind Peter and lightly touched the back of his head. As he did so, he saw that he had Jean-Claude’s hand clasped in his, hidden down between their thighs. His jaw dropped with a gasp and his heart leaped up painfully. His eyes shot to Peter’s crotch to see if there were any telltale signs of excitement there, but he saw nothing.

  “I’ll be right along,” Peter said.

  Charlie forced himself on out of the room. As soon as he closed the door, he wanted to go back and pull Peter to his feet and drag him away. Of course, holding hands didn’t mean anything in this set. They were all constantly pawing each other. He couldn’t expect Peter to make a scene about it in front of everybody. He had himself permitted Guy small physical intimacies simply because it would have seemed prudish to object. He still didn’t like it. He didn’t like any of it. He felt revulsion stirring in him again. They didn’t belong here. They didn’t belong anywhere. Nobody understood anything about decency and loyalty and devotion. He wished they could lock themselves up somewhere away from the world. He stumbled into their room and threw himself on a bed and was asleep.

  When he woke up, his eyes immediately sought Peter. The bed beside him was empty. He was on his feet in one bound. He stood looking around him, bewildered. He had no idea what time it was. He ran his fingers through his hair and arranged himself in his shorts as his erection subsided, and hurried across to Guy’s room. He knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he opened it and looked in. It was empty. He remembered seeing Anne and Jean-Claude going into the room next to theirs. Where else? He crossed back and knocked again. Silence. He opened the door. Nobody. His heart was racing as he flung himself do
wn the stairs. He careened into their midst; they were all sitting out in front of the inn under an awning, their things gathered around them, ready to go. He came to an abrupt halt, gazing at them with confusion. Peter laughed.

  “Guess who’s been asleep. I was just coming up to wake you.”

  He saw that Peter was in the same clothes he had worn for lunch. He looked fresh and glowing. “Didn’t you have a nap?”

  “I was so full after that lunch I had to go have another swim.”

  Charlie nodded. As he did so, his eyes were caught by wet swimming things hanging over the edge of Anne’s basket, hers and Jean-Claude’s. They made an interesting composition. “Have you all been swimming?” he asked.

  “Just these three children of the deep,” Guy said waspishly. “The rest of us followed your sensible example. Can you imagine what a plunge into cold water would do to your digestive system after such a meal? If their bathing costumes weren’t wet, I wouldn’t believe it possible.”

  The innuendo was overtly malicious. Charlie looked at Peter and caught a gleam of anger in his eye. An expression of solidarity was called for. “Peter has a stomach of iron,” he said and was warmed by the look of gratitude Peter shot him.

  The party they were all going to that night was being given by the Graumonts, out near the end of the peninsula beyond St. Tropez. Peter and Charlie had barely got back to their rented villa from the elaborate lunch excursion before it was time to dress for the evening. The Graumonts were representative, not of the increasingly popular St. Tropez of the gossip column, but of a small, almost invisible stratum of the immensely rich who had acquired their great vacation estates in the twenties or earlier. The Mills-Martins, as Charlie and Peter jokingly referred to themselves, had been given entree to this exclusive world by clients of Peter’s, who were constantly outdoing each other to win his favor; it depended on his good will whether a prized piece would find its way into the collection of one or the other of them. The Mills-Martins had been armed with introductions. Charlie, as a little-known American painter, would have been obliged to expend some effort to make his presence known; Peter was courted. Since they had both been brought up with all the advantages, as the saying goes, they weren’t surprised to find themselves consorting with an elite. The only surprise, particularly to Charlie, was in being accepted everywhere as a couple. Their subterfuges were brushed aside with invitations to “you and your handsome friend,” or “both of you, of course—I’m sure neither of you lets the other out of his sight.” The Mills-Martins had become a social reality. Peter, laughing delightedly, had threatened to begin introducing them accordingly.