Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “Now who is flattering whom? But in any event, looks are not everything. I can be attracted to a man’s personality, as well as to his face and body,” Paolo said, with a boldness that Sebastien found enviable.

  He decided to try to be equally frank. “Are you bisexual, Paolo?”

  “Yes. In my own way. I love my wife. The moment we met, I lost interest in other women. But I enjoy the company of men. They fulfill a certain need. If I did not—shall we say, divert myself, occasionally?—I would not be a complete person.”

  “Does your wife know?”

  “Of course. I hide nothing from her. A man is foolish if he believes he can hide anything from his wife, for very long.”

  Sebastien shook his head. “Well, I don’t know much about relationships in general, let alone about marriage. I’ve always lived alone. I don’t have anybody either to hide or not hide things from.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  They discussed their immediate plans. Paolo was delighted at the prospect of having Sebastien travel down river with him. But, like the concierge, Paolo warned Sebastien that a cattle transport boat was no luxury liner. Sebastien could have the use of one of the small cabins, below deck, in which to stow his luggage. But the heat was likely to be so intense that he wouldn’t want to spend much time down there. Paolo would probably spend most of the trip up on the open deck, where exposure to the elements—the inevitable rainfall, in particular—was the lesser of the two evils.

  “I won’t mind,” Sebastien insisted. “I’m used to ‘roughing it’ when I travel.”

  “Good. You may have the makings of a Brazilian in you, after all,” Paolo teased him. “If a transplanted one, like me.”

  After dinner, the two men took a short stroll, which was a standard form of evening recreation in a Brazilian town. There had, unusually, been no rain that afternoon, and the warm dry air surrounding them as they walked seemed thick, almost palpable. The night sky was a deep bluish-black overhead, studded with stars.

  Paolo, Sebastien discovered, was staying at another, smaller hotel, not far away from the Grande Hotel. It was an older building, and somewhat rundown, its former elegance now shabby, Paolo admitted. But it was patronized by local businessmen, and was thus a good place to keep up on the gossip and make contacts.

  Sebastien was so caught up in their conversation that he wasn’t aware they had made their way back to the Grande, until Paolo paused in front of it.

  “Oh. Here we are,” Sebastien said, a little awkwardly. “Maybe you’d like to have a drink in the bar—a nightcap—before you go to bed?”

  Paolo smiled. “Ordinarily, I would like to. But not tonight. It is getting late. And I would like to make a few phone calls before I go to bed.”

  “You could come up to my room,” Sebastien suggested. “And make your calls from there.”

  “And then?”

  “And then … I enjoy your company so much that I hate to say goodnight.”

  “I had intended to try to be celibate on this trip,” Paolo said, with a droll inflection on the word try. “You are making it rather difficult for me, Sebastien.”

  “I’m sorry—“

  “Oh, you must not apologize. Not for that! But you tempt me. I am not very good at resisting temptation.”

  “Neither am I, I’m afraid.”

  “One more thing we have in common.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me sleep on it, as you say in English. And you must have lunch with me tomorrow.”

  “All right.”

  “Boa noite then, mio caro Sebastien,” Paolo said, in a somewhat macaronic conflation of no fewer than three languages. “Sleep well.”

  And then, right there on the sidewalk in front of the Grande Hotel, he took Sebastien in his arms and kissed him on the mouth. None of the pedestrians seemed to take any particular notice as they passed the two men. There was a steady stream of vehicular traffic on the street, and one young man in an open sports car sounded his horn and shouted, “Hey—am I invited to the devassidão?” Then he revved his engine and drove on.

  “That guy didn’t seem to be particularly homophobic,” Sebastien commented, breathlessly, after he and Paolo finally broke their kiss.

  “Well, this isn’t Rio. But even in a smaller city such as this, one can find gay life. And in rural areas, too, if one knows where to look.”

  “Okay, I guess they didn’t teach us certain Portuguese words and phrases back in school,” Sebastien joked. “What’s a devassidão?”

  Paolo laughed. “An orgy, an orgia. Other words for the same thing might be a deboche or a dissipaçao.”

  “You’re quite a linguist.”

  “I have many talents, some of which I hope to demonstrate for you—all in good time,” Paolo replied. “But now I really must bid you goodnight. Sleep well,” he repeated.

  “I’m not likely to be able to fall asleep at all, after that kiss,” Sebastien protested, happily.

  “Good! I want you to think about me—to dream of me.”

  “I will.”

  “Boa noite, Sebastien.”

  “Boa noite, Paolo.”

  Sebastien went inside the hotel and ascended in the elevator to his floor, scarcely aware of his surroundings. He was already lost in an erotic reverie. Paolo Brescanti had not needed to admonish him to think about him, in his absence. Already, Sebastien could think about little else.

  Oh, he smelled so good, and he kissed so nice. What a mouth! I think he really likes me. What a shame he’s married. I admit it—if I thought I could, I’d try to take him away from his wife. Shame on me for even thinking such a thing.

  But Sebastien in fact felt no shame, only a hot desire to see Paolo again.

  He was extremely excited by the prospect of traveling with Paolo, no matter how primitive the method of transport might turn out to be. Sebastien prepared himself to face heat, cold, rain, insects, dirt, and animal smells.

  He also began to give serious thought to his wardrobe. He had already noticed, with a touch of envy, that Paolo always projected a certain air of elegance and style, even though he seemed to choose his clothes for their comfort, first and foremost. When he was back home in Manhattan, Sebastien was casual about what he wore to the point of slovenliness. He tried to adopt a more pulled-together look when he traveled, and he had packed carefully for this trip—taking into account the fact that, while it was still late winter in New York, here in the Southern Hemisphere it was late summer, in a tropical climate.

  He broached the subject with Paolo over lunch the next day. He expressed his doubts about whether he’d brought along the right kind of clothes to wear on the fazenda. It was a working ranch, after all.

  “Do you ride?” Paolo asked. “Horses, I mean.”

  Sebastien admitted what he didn’t always feel comfortable sharing with casual acquaintances—that he had played on the polo team in college. In some people’s eyes, this immediately stamped him as one of the idle rich. He also told Paolo that he enjoyed horseback riding, when his travels took him to places where livery stables were among the amenities available to tourists.

  “Oh, excellent,” Paolo said. “That skill will stand you in good stead. On Marajó, everyone rides.”

  After lunch, Sebastien took Paolo to his hotel room and showed him his wardrobe. Paolo approved of the summer suits Sebastien had brought along, for business and formal wear, and he also liked most of the items Sebastien thought of as “casual but decent-looking” everyday attire.

  “But you will need outdoor clothes, especially riding clothes,” Paolo advised. “Outfits that will make you blend in with the men who live and work on the fazenda, and still let you stand out from among them.” To Paolo’s way of thinking, this was apparently no contradiction. “A prosperous landowner on Marajó,” he went on, with a smile, “dresses like one of his ranch hands, like one of the cowboys. But like a very stylish cowboy.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to begin to do that,” Sebastien admitted.


  “I will help you. Shall we go shopping? Come, I will take you to the place where I buy all my outdoor outfits, here in Belém. They know me there—I am a very good customer, if I do say so myself. They will take very good care of you.”

  It sounded intriguing. “Yes, let’s go. You’ll have to steer me through it, though. I’m counting on your advice.” A thought struck Sebastien. “I’m not going to end up looking like some bad Hollywood notion of a South American gaúcho, am I?”

  Paolo laughed. “This shop could accommodate you, if you were after such a look. But the true gaúchos here in Brazil are in the pampas lands in the south, especially in Rio Grande do Sul. Don’t worry, I will not let you look like a fugitive from a costume party. The cowboys on Marajó have a different and less showy style. If the Hollywood movies I have seen—good and bad—are any indication, most of them would look right at home in the United States Southwest.”

  They went to the shop, where Paolo was indeed treated with the kind of deference that suggested he was a frequent and valued customer. The mere fact that Sebastien was accompanying him ensured that he was extended the same treatment.

  Sebastien had to have good-quality riding boots, sturdy and dependable, and they had to be comfortable—if they possessed a certain flair as well, so much the better. The next absolute necessity was a lightweight straw cowboy hat, to protect the head and face from the sun. There was no reason, however, why this practical article of clothing could not be adorned by an eye-catching ribbon hatband of Sebastien’s choice. He noticed that the bands on some of the hats had little medallions attached. Upon closer inspection, Sebastien realized that they were religious medals.

  “We can give you any saint you would like,” the clerk assured him. “We have them all, right here in this drawer. In pewter, bronze, silver, or gold.”

  Rather intrigued by the idea of a drawerful of saints, Sebastien decided, “I must have Saint Sebastian, then.” He chose a silver medal from the assortment the clerk presented to him, and the clerk quickly customized his hatband.

  “Ah, now you look like a real Brazilian!” Paolo teased him as Sebastien modeled the hat in front of a mirror.

  He and Paolo then turned their attention to filling the gap between boots and hat, so to speak. Sebastien’s stock of jeans, casual trousers, T-shirts, and polo shirts, which Paolo had reviewed in his hotel room, needed to be supplemented with khaki and whipcord trousers, and cotton shirts, both long- and short-sleeved. Sebastien was attracted to the seemingly endless range of lighter colors that would have the advantage of reflecting, rather than absorbing, the sunlight. He quickly acquired a monochromatic outdoor wardrobe in tastefully coordinated light browns, beiges, dusty grays, tans, taupes, and creamy whites. The shirts had such conveniences as buttoned pockets on both breasts, and in the case of the long-sleeved ones, little tabs to which the lower parts of the sleeves could be secured, when rolled up to the elbow.

  One table in the shop held stacks of T-shirts, in soft, luxuriant, Peruvian cotton, so Sebastien broke his self-imposed monochrome rule by selecting several of the most brightly colored ones.

  Paolo picked out for him a lightweight waterproof jacket with many pockets, the sort of thing a hunter might wear, and also—shades of the American Wild West, indeed!—a voluminous and old-fashioned duster, as protection against really foul weather. When Sebastien enveloped himself in the duster and studied himself in the mirror, he did indeed resemble the archetypal bad guy in some spaghetti Western.

  “I should be smoking a cigar,” he said, dubiously. “No—I should have a mouthful of chewing tobacco.”

  “You look splendid,” Paolo declared. “Very handsome.”

  The two men continued to browse, with Sebastien consulting Paolo every time he was tempted to purchase an item.

  Sebastien balked, momentarily, only when Paolo insisted that he needed riding gloves. The very light, thin, flexible deerskin ones Paolo recommended fit the hand like latex.

  “Gloves? In this heat?” Sebastien protested. “These are beautiful, and very comfortable, but I can’t see myself actually wearing them.”

  “You will need them when you spend a lot of time on a horse,” Paolo insisted, and Sebastien bowed to his judgment. They were nice gloves. This little shopping expedition might be bringing out the latent dandy in him, he thought.

  “What do you think about this vest?” he asked Paolo. “It almost matches the gloves. What beautiful soft leather.”

  “That’s a riding vest. It’s meant to be worn without a jacket over it, if you so choose. That’s why it is leather on both the front and the back, instead of leather in front and fabric in the back, like most vests. And see, it has these little pockets in the lining, on the inside, to tuck things away in.”

  “I think I’ll buy it.”

  “A good choice.”

  Having outfitted Sebastien to his satisfaction, Paolo picked out a few things for himself.

  “You must let me buy those for you,” Sebastien said, “to thank you for taking all this time and trouble, to help me out.”

  “Absolutely not,” Paolo protested. “It’s my pleasure. Well…you may buy me this one shirt, if you wish, because it is a bit of an extravagance for me. But I like the color, and then I will be able to tell my wife that it was not an extravagant purchase, but a gift from my new friend.” Paolo instructed the clerk to ring the other items up separately. He had, of course, a charge account at the store.

  Sebastien couldn’t remember the last time he had purchased so much clothing all at once. He had spent, by his standards, an ungodly amount of money, and the fact that the transaction had taken place in a foreign currency made it seem all the more unreal.

  “I’m already squandering my inheritance,” he joked to Paolo, as they left the shop—empty-handed, for of course everything, including Paolo’s shirt, would be delivered to their respective hotels. “Like the prodigal son, or, in my case, the prodigal nephew.”

  Paolo laughed. “Good clothes are an investment. And, even based on our short acquaintance so far, I think you have some way to go before you can be called a wastrel. Thank you again for my beautiful shirt.”

  “You’re most welcome. Does your wife really keep you on such a tight leash, when it comes to personal expenditures?”

  “Yes, which is strange, coming from a woman who never complains when I give her a new piece of jewelry—which I make a point of doing every time I come home from one of these business trips. But she gives me my freedom—she cuts me slack, is that the correct expression in English?—in other areas. Some of which might surprise you.”

  “Oh? Such as?”

  “Sexually, for example. As I mentioned to you before.”

  “I have to admit that continues to surprise me.”

  “We have an understanding. Like many women, she would never tolerate another woman as her rival, but…I may amuse myself, discreetly of course, with my friends.”

  “With your men friends, I assume,” Sebastien specified.

  “Yes. My lovers usually get along splendidly with my wife. I don’t keep the different parts of my life separate, if I can avoid it. Things go much more smoothly that way.”

  “That seems like a very sensible arrangement.”

  “Some people would say it is immoral, perhaps even shockingly so.”

  Sebastien shrugged. “I guess I’m not very easily shocked. Not by anything sexual, at least. So tell me, Paolo…have you met anyone here in Belém, for example, with whom you’d like to amuse yourself? Discreetly, of course?”

  “Oh, yes. I have met some charming men here. Most recently, a certain handsome young norte-americano, who is a little shy, perhaps, but who has charming manners and a most ingratiating personality. And he has recently upgraded his wardrobe. I am very attracted to him.”

  “Paolo, are you flirting with me?”

  “I believe we are flirting with each other…as we have been doing for some time. Ever since we met, in fact.”


  “It’s very pleasant to flirt. I have trouble…I’m not very good at what we call ‘cruising,’ in the States. I guess I don’t have much self-confidence.”

  “Oh? How odd for you to say that. You seem very sure of yourself, to me. Very independent. And, in any event, I am good enough at ‘cruising’ for both of us,” Paolo boasted. “It’s exciting to meet a man, and get to know him, and wonder what he might be like in bed. It’s exciting to anticipate being with him, in that way…but it’s even more exciting when the moment finally comes. Tell me, Sebastien. When can I make love to you?”

  The question, put to him right there on the sidewalk, in the midst of a steady stream of other pedestrians, took Sebastien by surprise—even though their conversation had undeniably been heading in that direction.

  “Whenever you like,” he said. “Right now, if you want.”

  “Ah. You are not so shy, after all.”

  “No, I suppose I can be forthcoming enough, when the situation demands it. And this situation definitely demands it. In fact, I’m starting to get a pretty damn demanding hard-on, just thinking about it.”

  Paolo laughed. “Patience, my friend. As I said…a little anticipation always adds to the excitement. I would love to spend more time with you right now, but I have another business appointment this afternoon. Boring, but necessary. We will have dinner together this evening, shall we? And then, later…may I spend some time alone with you, tonight? In bed?”

  The stirring in Sebastien’s loins increased in urgency. “Yes. Let’s make it an early dinner, though. There may be limits to the amount of anticipation I can stand!”

  That evening, Paolo took Sebastien to a restaurant he patronized often when he was in Belém. The owner and the staff knew Paolo, and gave him VIP treatment—which, as Paolo’s dining companion, Sebastien received as well. The meal was excellent, and the two men lingered over coffee and dessert. Somewhat to his surprise, Sebastien was almost reluctant to leave the restaurant—even though he knew that the best part of the evening was still to come!