Boys of Vice City

by Zack

  After the meal they returned to the hotel and Grünli invited him up to the suite for a “nightcap,” as he put it. Gil agreed. The sitting room was hot and Gil immediately took off his jacket, laying it over the sofa back. Grünli excused himself for a moment and disappeared into the bedroom. Gil noticed that the management supplied a stereo in the really luxurious rooms. He went over and idly shuffled through some of the records. There was a wide range to suit all tastes, including several of the latest disco sounds.

  “Put something on, if you would like,” said Grünli, coming back into the room.

  Gil selected something and put it on. Pulsing sounds of Prince’s I Wanna Be Your Lover filled the room. Grünli sat down on the sofa and busied himself pouring coffee from the flask that had been waiting for them on their return. He looked across at Gil, who was kneeling on the carpet by the stereo, listening to the music. A standard lamp above his head threw a warm glow over him, turning the bright hair into a white hot mane of fire. The top light caught his fine cheekbones, throwing them into strong relief. Grünli could hardly contain himself. “Coffee?” was all he managed, waving the pot in the air.

  Gil nodded and got to his feet. He came over and sat beside the man, throwing himself down with relaxed abandon, legs spread apart, hands behind his head. Grünli handed him the cup.

  “You like this kind of music?”

  Gil paused in his drinking to nod his head vigorously. “Now that’s something I can do really well, dance. Haven’t had the chance much since I got to Rome.”

  “Well, don’t let me stop you,” Grünli murmured with a hint of a smile.

  “What, here—just like that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I dunno.” He finished the coffee and Grünli pushed across a glass with clear liquid in it. “What’s this?” Gil asked.

  “Grappa. From the south of Switzerland. Go on—it’s good. You simply drain the whole glass at one swallow—like this.” And he raised his glass and poured its contents straight down.

  Gil grinned and lifted the glass. “Okay.” He emptied the glass at one swallow. For a second nothing happened then the liquid hit the back of his throat and the bottom of his stomach and exploded. “Jeez!” he wheezed, grabbing his throat and starting to cough. “Wow, but that’s”—cough—“real strong stuff!”

  Grünli said nothing, just smiled calmly. After a minute the fire in Gil’s body died down, leaving a comforting glow behind it. The drink went straight to his head and compounded the rhythms of the disco music. After a second glass of grappa he was quite drunk enough to want to dance—even on his own. Grünli led him to the center of the room and then sat down again on the sofa. He was in the shadows from where Gil found himself standing. He began to gyrate, suddenly all alone with the exciting music, feeling its sensuality beckoning him, and yet still aware that there was another presence in the room, watching his every move. It was kinda sexy at that.

  The boy really could move, Grünli thought happily.

  He was quite content to sit and watch the lithe movements for a while, the urge growing in him with each passing second. After a few minutes Gil began to feel too hot. “Mind if I take this shirt off?” he suddenly asked.

  “Go ahead,” Grünli answered softly.

  Gil ripped it off, pulling the bottom of his white under-shirt out from his pants’ waistband as he did so. The tight T-shirt showed every rippling muscle as he danced on. Gil was beginning to get aroused himself, from the effects of the drink, the lights in his eyes, and the noise of disco in his ears. All these sensations mixed together and settled in his groin. His dancing became increasingly overt, and he was aware that he was dancing for Grünli. Every movement of his hips became a sexual thrust designed to excite. He started using his hands to stroke his body, lightly at first but with more explicitness as he went on. He outlined his nipples and then slid a sinuous hand down his ribs and onto his hips, letting his fingers almost touch his crotch. Grünli had a hard-on within seconds.

  As he raised the hand back, Gil caught at the hem of his T-shirt and allowed it to ride up with the movement, revealing the bare skin beneath in the subtle yellow light. A nipple appeared momentarily, then the second as Gil lifted the other side of the shirt. He stood there, for the world, Grünli thought, like Michaelangelo’s David. Then the shirt came off.

  My God, Grünli realized, he’s doing a striptease!

  Still grinding to the music, Gil edged closer and closer to the coffee table behind which his companion sat, sexily stroking his hips and slim waist, pretending to undo the top button of his trousers, then not doing it, then doing it. Grünli stared in extremis as the tab flapped loose and Gil gently drew down the zipper halfway, then pulled it up again. In everything he did, Gil ignored his audience, somehow sensing that this would be an even bigger turn-on than if he played directly to Grünli.

  The Swiss businessman had never seen anything like it, at least not at a private performance. The pole-dancing Thai boys in Phuket’s numerous gay pick-up bars did it for a living, but his night’s escort was doing this purely for him—or, more to the point, for himself as well. That raised the slow strip to a new height of excitement.

  The kid turned his back to the Swiss so that he got an excellent view of his firmly packed buns, swaying from side to side in rhythm to the music. But it was what he could no longer see that tantalized the most. Gil was obviously unzipping his trousers. Grünli desperately wanted to get up and help him but the situation defeated him and so he stayed where he was, riveted to the spot by the boy’s performance.

  When Gil slowly turned himself around again to face the Swiss he had the fly open. But the trousers clung so well at his waist that they still stayed up. All Grünli could see was a glimpse of white briefs underneath. Gil had one hand enticingly inserted under the waistband, fondling what Grünli could not see. The boy’s head was thrown back, quite lost in his own pleasure. It was the damned sexiest thing the jaded businessman had ever witnessed and he was sure he was going to reach a climax without ever having lifted a finger. He was certainly wet through with excitement, creaming his pants, as the English boys said.

  Gil’s hand bumped and roved underneath the black material, gradually easing the waist of the smart pants down, revealing more and more of his white briefs. For a second the trousers hung poised on the knuckles of his hand, and then they fell loosely away to lie around his ankles. He danced out of them easily and stood there, a glowing statue of perfect proportions, holding onto himself. Maddeningly he turned away again before releasing his cock, so that Grünli still hadn’t seen anything yet. What he could see now, though, was the line of Gil’s straight spine vanishing underneath the briefs, the hint of a cleft showing. The white cotton strained and relaxed with each gyration.

  Gil had by now moved almost to the side of the coffee table, only a foot away from Grünli. He would have reached out a hand to feel that marvelous bottom, but he was still frozen with emotion. At last Gil swiveled around, hands rubbing his nipples. His long cock was clearly visible, hard and pushing at the briefs, the finely shaped head etched in clinging cotton. Grünli swallowed hard, Gil leaned back on his hips, thrusting the midriff forward and finally Grünli was released. He lifted a hand and stroked what was proffered. Gil swayed forward and let the man pull the briefs down. His cock bounced free and slid easily into Grünli’s mouth. Gil let him suck it for only a few seconds before falling hard onto the Swiss. They both fell back on the sofa as Gil grappled with the man’s clothes.

  Grünli still struggled to keep Gil’s dick in his labial grasp. Gil got the trousers undone and worked his way beneath the shorts to get his own mouth round Grünli’s cock. It was impossibly rigid with excitement and moist with lubricant. For long moments they lay in a heap on the sofa sucking each other off. At the moment when Gil thought he was about to shoot, Grünli ceased his ministrations and
turned Gil over. Gil relaxed into the deep cushions and allowed Grünli to ram his over-excited weapon into the cleft between his ass cheeks. He felt the wet head enter him and with only six hefty thrusts Grünli gasped and shot his jism.

  Then the Swiss rolled him back over and fell on his cock, massaging it furiously between his red lips. Gil arched his back until he was almost bent double. At the top of the movement he exploded cum. Faint with satisfaction, he knew Grünli couldn’t contain it all as he sensed its warmth trickle down the length of his shaft and settle among his pubic hair.

  After a few minutes of deep-breathing recovery, Grünli showed him the bathroom and they cleaned up, showering together. Gil admired the older man’s still striking physique and before either of them realized it, they were fucking again.

  It was almost three in the morning when Gil finally climbed into his own bed, worn out and much richer. Grünli had given him two hundred and twenty dollars, knowing full well that Pietro would claim a cut of Gil’s money. Gil had expected to feel awful, taking someone’s cash in return for sex, but somehow he didn’t. Grünli had made so little of it that the action had seemed quite okay. Unfortunately Gil knew he was going to feel appalling when he had to wake up in only two and a half hours’ time for another day at the studio. His last thought before falling into a deep satisfied sleep was of Mike. A stab of guilt went through him for betraying Mike by having sex with someone else. Still, he thought, I’ll be punished by the way I’m gonna feel later on today—that grappa was real strong stuff.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Vice City

  By seven o’clock next morning the unit was boarding the studio buses. Gil was thankful to have read the production board and seen they were all getting an extra hour in bed, but nevertheless he emerged from the elevator with only seconds to spare. Sheila was in a fine mood. “C’mon, Gil, for Chrissakes, get a move on.”

  “Yeah, be with you,” Gil croaked back across the lobby.

  He staggered up to the desk. Pietro was not there. Gil handed the relief clerk a brown envelope for him to give to Pietro when he came on after lunch, then ran for the waiting bus with his head pounding: Sheila glowered at him as he collapsed into the first available seat. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “You’ve been overdoing it, Gil. I don’t care what you get up to just as long as it doesn’t affect your work. Okay?”

  “Sure, Sheila, sorry,” Gil said again. He held his head in his hands and dozed off before the bus had even pulled out of the hotel road. When they arrived at the studio everyone piled off. It was Mike who shook Gil awake.

  “What’s up with you?” he asked jovially. Gil grinned ruefully.

  “Had a hard night, huh? Come on, this is going to be a hard day.”

  Gil followed Mike off the bus and within minutes found himself facing an equally bedraggled looking Emmanuelle. The make up assistant was patiently trying to turn the star into the voluptuous heroine of a film again. Emmanuelle was in a foul mood all day and the bed scene, which she had interrupted the day before, took far longer to get in the can than it should have done.

  Mitchener kept screaming at everyone, and most of all at Gil. By lunch time Gil felt like a wrung out rag. He huddled himself into a hidden corner and munched disconsolately on a sandwich. It was while he was sitting there that he heard the Italian voices chattering away behind him. He took little notice but as he emerged from his hiding place he spotted the two stagehands who had fucked him over so well that time in the bathroom. Gil smiled a greeting at them and was walking past when he felt a tug at his belt. He stopped and turned to face the younger kid. “What’s up, Angel?”

  Gil had learned that the boy’s name was Angelo, but the Americans all called him Angle, because he always seemed to have one. Gil could never bring himself to use the nickname to the kid’s face, so he called him Angel, which he thought much nicer. It was also more suitable since the young Roman’s face was beatific in the extreme. A mouth in which butter would not melt, Gil thought wryly, but cum would—and often did. A proper little Caravaggio urchin, as Mike, who held some art pretensions, called him.

  Angel smiled wistfully at Gil and said, “You avoiding me, I think?”

  “No, I’m not,” Gil replied, “I’m just busy all the time.”

  “Why you no come out with me like you promise?”

  Angel gave a loud sniff and looked comically sad.

  Gil laughed and immediately began to feel better.

  “Okay, so I go out with you. What’re you going to show me?”

  Angel’s sniff turned off instantly as he smiled innocently at Gil. “We go out tonight and I show you the sights, yes?”

  Gil shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a rogue, you know that? What sights are you going to show me?”

  “We see everything. I take you special places no guide knows.”

  “Yeah, I bet. Okay, you’re on. Tonight then.”

  Angel clapped his hands together gleefully. “Tonight, yes. We go everywhere.”

  Gil punched the boy’s shoulder lightly, turned on his heel and strode off toward Emmanuelle Lai’s dressing room. In the afternoon things went a little better as the star became progressively more drunk and therefore more manageable. Finally at four-thirty she collapsed after the last take Mitchener wanted and the director congratulated Gil on perfect timing, so much so that he ordered two of the stagehands to carry the prone star back to her dressing room, instead of leaving it to Gil. They made no mention of Union rules. The unit moved onto other scenes with different actors and film rolled through the camera at a fine rate.

  By six-thirty Mitchener felt they’d had a sufficiently good day to release the majority of the crew. For the next four hours he was going to work with the special effects boys, setting up shots for back projection. As Gil was walking out to the bus, Angel came up to him and fixed a time and place to meet after dinner. It was not far from the hotel. Gil agreed and climbed on the bus. Angel and his friends took a local service out to wherever they lived in the sprawling suburbs.

  After he had eaten, Gil made his way down to the lobby.

  Pietro waved him over. “You had a good dinner last night, I trust, signore?” he asked Gil obsequiously.

  “Yeah, thanks. You got the envelope, right?” Gil asked quietly.

  The desk clerk gave him a polite smile and nodded his head.

  “Mr. Groonly still staying?” Gil asked.

  “Oh no, signore. He left at midday for Frankfurt.”

  “Okay, be seein’ ya.” Gil threw over his shoulder as he left.

  He got outside into the summer evening and was glad he had decided to wear only cut-offs. The air was clammy and the distant city’s aroma wafted along on a sluggish breeze that did nothing to cool him. Gil strolled along the sidewalk watching the chaotic traffic and smiling inwardly whenever he received a modest stare from the many Italian girls walking along with him. He got as many from the men too. It took fifteen minutes to find the appointed meeting place but Angel was nowhere to be seen. Gil waited and ten minutes later he spotted the boy running along on the other side of the road. Angel reached him out of breath.

  “You are here. I thought maybe…” His voice trailed off meaningfully.

  “Nope. I’m here. Where to? You gonna show me some ancient Roman ruins, huh?”

  “Nope,” Angel echoed. “We go this way.” He grabbed Gil unselfconsciously by the hand and dragged him down a side street. The sun was setting by the time they reached the first port of call. It was a run down looking bar-cum-bistro in a dirty backwater neighborhood Gil had never seen before. He had no idea where it was from the hotel since they had made their way down so many twisting streets and through too many enclosed squares for Gil to have any sense of direction. He frowned dubiously at the dirty windows of the bar. Angel smiled happily
at him.

  “Is alright, honest. We go in.”

  Gil allowed himself to be pushed through the door. Inside it was pretty gloomy, the interior only lit by candles and a couple of antique-looking hurricane lamps. The bar was full and stank heavily of garlic and tomatoes mingled with sour wine and some other indefinable smell. Angel pushed through the crowd toward the bar and Gil followed. It only took him a few minutes to notice that there were no women present. At the bar, Angel ordered drinks for them but Gil could not follow the rapid Italian. The barman came back with two glasses of wine and looked expectantly at Gil. Gil fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a bill. The barman took it grumpily. The change never arrived. Angel drank greedily and kept flashing scintillating smiles at Gil, his bright white teeth glinting in the low light.

  The heat and the smell began to affect Gil and he knew the cheap wine was going to his head because his knees started feeling shaky. Just then another young Italian came up to them and grabbed hold of Angel delightedly. The two of them gabbled away from some minutes. The other looked Gil up and down with frank interest and he understood that they were discussing him. Angel took his hand and started walking him along as they followed Angel’s friend to another corner of the place. There, sitting around a large circular table were several other kids, none of them older than Angel. They all greeted Angel like a long lost friend. Gil found himself wedged in between Angel and the one who had discovered them at the bar.

  He felt disoriented, a bit like an undergrad surrounded by school kids. Angel introduced everyone to Gil but above the noise of the crowd he couldn’t catch any names except that of his neighbor, who he thought was called Paolo. Paolo was a nice looking guy. A bit older than the others and more solidly built than the slight Angel. Black floppy hair fell over his eyes, almost obscuring the heavy brows above. His lips were full and could be red if the bar light didn’t lie. He looked powerful to Gil, with the kind of arm and chest development of a man who works by hefting heavy objects around. Gil later discovered that he worked on the river barges, unloading crates and sacks into the warehouses. As he kept giving Gil admiring looks it was natural to try and talk. Gil found Paolo’s English passable, so as Angel was busily chatting with the others, they struck up a conversation.