Date: Sun, 23 Sep 2001 13:34:40 -0400
From: GM
Subject: Enzo

On the Rapido to Naples, the sun blotched fields of Campania streak past as
relentlessly as the daydreams of sultry adolescents that flicker through my
mind.  I am determined this trip will be a new beginning.  I place a
capstone on the pyramid of angry resolutions that have plagued me since my
break up with Peter.  Though my anger has subsided, I am left picking over
the debris, annoyed and humiliated at my credulity, left pondering whether
he ever really loved me.  Anticipating my time in Naples, I think about how
and what I want.  Vivid fantasies startle me from the rail-induced stupor.
There will be time for adventures, for wandering sultry back streets and
suburbs immersed in the afternoon siesta.  I will explore crumbling Baroque
churches and Rococo palaces.  I will prowl the beaches, wander Posillipo,
cavort in the surf, have my pick of scugnizzi (in my fantasy they are all
assembled from the photographs of Von Gloeden).  I have several months with
little to do officially except visit archives.  Ironically, the assignment
is occasioned by the discovery of a painting, possibly by Caravaggio, a
portrait of a Roman street boy dressed as St. John the Baptist.  Any
mention of this "find" in church or notarial records of the time will
authenticate the picture and send its price into the stratosphere.  My
budget is generous and friends have arranged the use of their vacant
apartment.

This is my first visit to Naples and Enzo is the first person I meet.  He
seems to float towards me across the glassy floor of a dimly lit corridor
in the Stazione Mergellina. At three in the afternoon it is deserted.  His
face is blurred, my vision dimmed by the hot white daylight behind him.  My
cock is soft but swollen, restless and obtuse after long confinement on the
train. Smiling as he approaches, he brushes past me and rubs the back of
his hand across my hip.  Dragging my two suitcases I turn and follow him
back into the dark corridor.  When we are practically alone he turns
abruptly and faces me.  He is so close that I catch a scent of his home: a
delicate blend of garlic, cooking oil and coffee.  It lends him a complex,
alluring dimension, both familiar and foreign.

 "Come va" His way of speaking seems guileless enough yet it is radiant
with sexual wisdom.  Without asking, he takes one of my bags.  To an
observer in this echoing hallway we might be old friends, relatives even,
meeting at the station.  I give him the address, his brow furrows with
concentration, a gesture which momentarily suspends his assumed air of
maturity, of being a grown-up.  I realize he is very young but not a child:
eighteen or nineteen.  I explain why I am in Naples, describing my
profession as storico (historian), an admission which generates another
wrinkling between his glossy eyebrows.  Enzo offers to take me in his car.
Walking beside him I contemplate the texture of his skin, his dark walnut
hair, and excitement mounts in every part of my body.

We set out with a violent lurch in his tinny Fiat Cinquecento and almost
immediately begin to drive up the winding road that climbs the steep
hillside behind the station.  Having studied the map of Naples for months
before my trip, I know we are going in the wrong direction.  He might be a
thief, I think, but am reassured by a dog-eared copy of I Promessi Sposi on
the shelf under the dashboard.  In the afternoon heat most of the streets
are empty.  We stop on a curve and he adroitly parks the tiny car between
enormous huge garbage skips.  There is a strong smell of rotting
vegetables.  He reaches for my cock.  While he undoes my belt and unbuttons
my fly, his mouth is on my cock through the cloth of my jeans.  By the time
he extracts it from my pants I have that rubbery kind of erection that
seems as though it will never go down.  It makes me feel enormous as he
stuffs it into his mouth with a muffled groan of pleasure.  He lets it plug
his throat for what seems a dangerously long time then comes up panting for
air, smiling.

 There isn't much room for maneuvering in the Fiat 500 but he manages to
pull my jeans down around my thighs and get his hand between my legs.  He
begins gently squeezing my balls.  All the while my cock is wedged down his
throat and the buildup of saliva feels like lava; it seeps down through my
pubic hair around my balls, running onto the seat.  I reassure myself from
time to time that the street is still empty and begin working my hands over
Enzo's body, feeling his smooth muscular back, his hard defined chest, his
nipples like hard raspberries. He begins sucking me in earnest with long,
noisy, wet lunges -in the stillness of this August afternoon a listener
might think someone was eating ripe plums.  The sound seems deafening.  I
bend over his back and breathe the smell of his hair, a mixture of
Palmolive and warm fresh milk.  I begin to climax from some point just
behind my now extremely sensitized hot asshole -an almost painful orgasm
that sends jets of semen straight down his throat.  We clean up with
tissues that Enzo extracts from under the dashboard, behind the Manzoni.
He wants to move on.  When I ask if he wants me to suck him off he says,
"Later" with a smile that sends a chill of anticipation down my sweaty
spine.

The portiere in Via Caracciolo has to be roused from his nap and his humor
is none too good when he opens the door.  I explain about being the
Professore Americano who is to stay in the Morganthal's apartment.  Enzo
shows native discretion and lets me do all the talking even as we are
accompanied by the grumpy portiere to the top floor in a tiny, birdcage of
an elevator.  Wheezing and groaning he leads us up another floor to the
superattico and lets us into the apartment.  He gloats disdainfully,
knowingly, as he hands over the keys.  I thank him with a generous tip, the
miracle cure for cynicism in Naples.

As he surveys the apartment Enzo's brown eyes are focused beyond what he
actually sees.  There is an inaccessible locus in the complexity that
assembles in his expression.  He assesses the apartment, its occupants,
their economic circumstances and all his preconceptions of an America he
has never visited.  I explain that my friends are academics, a young
married couple both writing theses on obscure Neapolitan painters. I begin
to explain Misha and Andrew's social background, their prosperous
professional parents, trust funds, prestigious colleges. I wonder how to
continue, as often happens with Italians they are puzzled by my tendency to
overelaborate.  Something more directly physical is in order.  I kiss him.
I can see flecks of green in his brown eyes: ("come un ruscello turbato" I
will tell him one day and he will reply, laughing, that only an American
would talk like that).  He reads my intentions better than I do but gently
declines them.  He suggests I get comfortable in the new place before
anything else.

Enzo opens the shutters and the light flooding the white walled apartment
is almost painfully bright.  The Morgenthal's penthouse consists of a very
large living room, a bedroom and a kitchen.  It has been carved out of the
space that had formerly been the laundry facilities or servants quarters to
the aristocratic Neapolitans who had built the palazzo and whose
descendants, in all probability, now live below on the piano nobile.  The
apartment has terraces on two levels.  The lower one completely secluded
behind the high building cornice, is a roof garden full of oleander,
jasmine, roses and geraniums.  The higher terrace raised over the roof of
the apartment, is reached by an iron stair. From here the city and the bay
are spread out in a spectacular panorama.  There is a smell of salt and
diesel fuel from the waterfront only a couple of streets away.  In the
distance, the public beach reverberates with shrill collective mirth.

 When I ask Enzo if he wants a drink, he suggests coffee and we begin
rummaging in the kitchen.  Extracting an espresso pot from a cabinet, he
dives into the tiny refrigerator as though he is certain of findng coffee.
He is correct and we drink the syrupy espresso out of tiny white porcelain
cups while standing on the high terrace.  Enzo points out the hydrofoil
arriving from Capri and the luxurious yacht of a Saudi billionaire at
anchor.  His forehead, now exposed by the arrival of a sea breeze, shows an
uneven hairline, like the border of a forest.  "This is a good wind, he
tells me "-- maestrale, Il respiro del'sole."  His brow is softly,
almost imperceptibly grooved.  In the brilliant light, with the city
distanced, reduced to a dull bawling, I can think of nothing but Enzo's
mouth, and the prospect of his cock rising to meet mine.

On the lower terrace there is garden furniture.  We go down, he is behind
me and I turn, finding his crotch at face level.  I bite his cock through
the cotton trousers and he laughs.  By the time we get to the bottom of the
stairs we are both undressing and I see him naked for the first time.  His
body is not classically perfect.  There is an appealing lack of symmetry in
the relation of chest to arms, his waist is a little short.  His skin glows
like a lamp held high, in its light I feel exposed and defenseless.  He is
more Renaissance bronze than Greek kouros: his lithe body still retaining
an adolescent fleshiness.  The hair on his legs is soft and curly.  Around
his uncircumcised cock he has a thick growth of glistening black-brown hair
that becomes a silky rivulet forming at the base of his abdomen and
vanishing between his pectorals.  His face is handsome: masculine and
earthy, with a poised sober sweetness.  The expression in his eyes now is
so compelling that I want him close enough to keep them out of sight.  His
eyes see more in me than I am willing to see in myself in this moment.

I take his cock in my mouth thereby stopping him midway on the stairs.  His
clothes are strewn behind him.  He bends to caress my head but almost loses
his balance on the wedge shaped step.  Gripping the handrail on either side
he offers me his body with inebriate obscenity, like a drunken satyr on an
ancient vase.  Pre-cum begins to fill my mouth -it tastes slightly of
anise.  My hands are moving over his entire body though I notice a slight
hesitation when I spread the cheeks of his ass.  I direct my attention now
to his balls, gently jerking him off while I tongue them, taking them both
into my mouth.  From below I easily lick the area behind his scrotum and
this excites him. "Girati" I say ("turn around" one of the sexiest words in
Italian).  He has trouble on the stair and must hold on to the central post
round which the stairs descend.  His back, ass, thighs are magnificent.  I
gently spread his cheeks to expose his asshole.  It is pink, clean and
surrounded by delicate curls of hair - miniature versions of those on his
head.  I kiss and lick the area around his tightly clenched hole savoring
his muskiness mixed with the faint odor of Palmolive soap.  Finally I lay
siege to the center with my tongue and he sighs "Sto per venire" I'm going
to come.  His familiar tone of voice seems an even greater intimacy than
the presence of my tongue up his ass.  He comes violently, his sphincter
clenched open and shut like the shutter of a camera making successive
exposures.  Semen splashes down among the climbing geraniums.  As he
recovers, Enzo is affectionate and murmurs appreciatively.  He fondles my
angry erection and explains that he must leave but asks if he can see me
later.  Reluctantly I let him go.  It will be better when he is more
interested.  He leaves tucking the telephone number into his change pocket.
We kiss while waiting for the elevator.  Left alone in the apartment I
unpack and explore, the apartment and my own reactions to Enzo.  Eventually
I collapse into the waiting bed.

The telephone awakens me from deep sleep. Completely disoriented, I
struggle to identify my surroundings, the source of the ringing.  It is
Enzo, apologetic for having disturbed me.  He suggests meeting at a nearby
cafe.  I am famished now and must rush to shower and shave.  The cafe is
not crowded but I can tell at once that it is not the local "family" cafe.
The clientele is divided between ragazzi di vita, the Italian euphemism for
hustlers and one or two older gay men.  Enzo is seated alone and rises to
kiss me familiarly on both cheeks.

I imagine he has decided to make me family.  This is a quality I have
come to notice in Italy: you are admitted to the "family" or not.  At
Enzo's suggestion I drink a syrupy, mildly alcoholic Aperol which might
have been perfect to soothe a sore throat but does nothing to assuage my
hunger.  He suggests a nearby restaurant commenting that he will only look
on as he has already eaten at home.

The restaurant is large, noisy and popular.  He suggests I try the timballo
which is the evenings specialit .  We order wine.  The elderly waiter
shuffles back and forth carrying bread, water, and finally a carafe of
wine.  He is as attentive and serious as an altar boy.  Enzo, flushed with
happiness looks on approvingly as I crunch breadsticks.  In the warm light
of a shaded lamp on our table we seem to be set apart from the rest of the
restaurant.

He talks excitedly about Naples and of all the things he wants to show me.
I can see the "sights" on my own he laughs, but he will show me il vero
Napoli.  And beyond, he might even take me to Caserta to see the Reggia,
the grandiose palace of the Bourbon King.  Then with an impish grin he says
he might take me to the Scuola da Ballo, the Dancing School.

Before I have time to question him, the waiter has placed a steaming plate
of pasta in front of me.  The odor of cheese, browned breadcrumbs and
nutmeg obliterates everything else for the moment.

After dinner we walk the Lungomare back to the apartment.  Night life is
beginning and Enzo is delighted to be my tutor.  He points out the stream
of cars with single occupants that slow down as they pass.  Hustlers lean
against the railings and their prospective clients observe, assess and then
walk on.  The night is warm and the cooler air from the sea has begun to
form itself into a musky, salty breeze.  Anxious to be back in the
apartment I ask Enzo to come up and he accepts.  When I question him about
having to be back home he laughs and says that he is free as a bird tonight
because his parents have gone to the country.  His parents still have some
land "'le nostre terre" he says, a little pompously, near Caserta.  They
must go and see that the contadini are looking after things properly.

"That sounds very feudal."

"You wouldn't understand.  There is nothing like it in America."

"In the South there was.  It was called slavery."

He bristled.  "I wish I were as well off as my parents contadini."

At the door of the palazzo we find the portiere outside with one of his
cronies.  They eye us sharply as we approach and, I imagine their gossip at
our expense.  We retreat into the building covering our backs with a
protective screen of buona seras.  I have difficulty in maintaining the
light banter with Enzo as the antique elevator creaks its way to the top
floor.  All I can think about is getting his clothes off and getting my
cock into the voluptuous little ass that I had taken so much pleasure in
rimming that afternoon.

Once inside the apartment I waste no time in steering Enzo towards the
bedroom.  At first he seems a little reluctant.  Our conversation about his
vaguely aristocratic origins has distracted him, usurped his instinctual
sexiness.  I insist on undressing him while exploring his mouth with my
tongue.  I open his pants and they slip down around his knees.  His cock is
hard and protrudes in his fine cotton briefs.  I slip my hands under the
elastic and grip his buttocks..  This seems to turn him on, so I spread the
cheeks wide and let one of my fingers trace the outline of his puckered
hole.  He breathes more heavily and our kissing has become intense.  Moving
onto the bed I remove his shoes and pants while he opens my belt, undoes
the buttons on my jeans and releases my hard cock.  For the first time he
takes my cock in his mouth and I marvel at his expertise.  He is a born
cocksucker.  His tongue caresses the head, darting frequently into the slit
and then slides on lubricated lips down the shaft while saliva flowing
freely allows the head to lodge in his throat.  He is consumed with doing
this, and I am amazed and excited that he should be so proficient already.
I try to oblige by taking his cock down my throat but cannot resist
wandering beyond into the area behind his balls and almost reach his
asshole.  Again, the odor of Palmolive soap, his evening session on the
bidet.  His work on my cock has now become so pleasurable that I find it
difficult to concentrate on anything else.  I tell him to stop -he is close
to making me come.  My goal is fucking him and I straddle his chest while
he licks my balls and raises his legs towards me, giving complete access to
his ass.  Bending forward my tongue flicks across his hole and I can hear
him give a muffled gasp.  I point and harden my tongue and try to penetrate
his contracted sphincter.  He relents and I begin to fuck him gently with
my tongue.  This seems to turn him on sufficiently to make him cross the
frontier of his attention to my crotch so that he begins licking me behind
the balls and near my asshole.  I know this will bring me off very soon so
I lie down next to him and try to turn him on his side.  Simultaneously I
try to visualize the location of the fresh tube of lubricant that I have
brought with me.  Enzo resists and I tell him I want to fuck him.  His
response is an unequivocal "No."  Not wanting to make an issue of this I
content myself with inserting my now slippery cock between his legs.  He
participates completely, shoving his tight butt against me and moaning
softly while jerking himself off.  This brings us both to orgasm almost
immediately and we lie panting in each others arms.

"You don't like being fucked?"  I feel I should bring this up before the
intimacy of this moment has dissolved.  "E troppo presto" He whispers, "too
soon" and as consolation, twists his head back to kiss me.

Within two weeks we were lovers.  When I think back over the process I
cannot remember exactly when or how it all happened.  It seems so natural
for us to be together, as though it had always been so.  Enzo is with me
constantly, when he is free, sometimes only for a few hours between his
family and school engagements.  He will sometimes arrive early in the
morning carrying his schoolbooks, wanting sex.  He takes my semi-soft cock
in his mouth and I luxuriate in its snakelike transformation down his
throat.  He likes having me suck his cock through the always candid white
bikini briefs delicately scented by laundry bleach.  I will bite and fondle
his cock, nip at his balls and slide my tongue under the cloth to rim him
until a telltale spot of moisture heralds the crucial phase before orgasm.
His favorite position at these morning sessions is straddling my head as he
stands next to the bed.  In the evenings we dine in a restaurant, usually
outdoors, and then return to the apartment to have sex.  Night after night
I wonder if Enzo will let me fuck him but he always wriggles out of it,
literally and figuratively.  I never stop trying.  The existence of Enzo's
unfucked ass drives me wild.  In spite of our twice daily love-making I
will find myself overcome with desire while examining notarial records in a
dusty library and in order to restore my concentration will have to go to
the men's room and masturbate.  My fantasy is invariably that perhaps
tonight will be the night.

The mysteries of Naples remain mysterious.  Enzo is all I want and he makes
sure I have no time for anything else.  When I express interest in the
topography of gay Naples he will drive past places where transvestites
gather or suggest we have after-dinner coffee at the train station where he
points out the street boys and seasoned hustlers.  He talks of the parks
and the activity that centers around the U.S. Navy base He seems to know a
great deal about the gay scene but not to have experienced it himself.  As
to his informants, his sources of information, he reveals nothing.  He
never speaks of friends or previous lovers.

Enzo loves to talk about his childhood and his family.  I am enthralled and
ask questions about relationships, details of events, conversations.  I
particularly like hearing of his numerous early sexual experiences which he
recounts with great intensity.  Sometimes these turn me on so powerfully
that we will have to find some place to have quick sex: in a park or in his
car, once in the men's room in the Museo Nazionale.  He delights in his
power to excite me.  One of the stories which he tells over and over again
(a fact that neither of us avow) is of an older teenage playmate who had
sucked his cock while they were isolated from the rest of the players in a
game of Hide and Seek.  This activity had been repeated soon after when
they played again, but this time the bigger, stronger boy had tried to fuck
Enzo as well.  When Enzo began crying, he stopped, but the two boys never
spoke again.

Our first month is blissful.  The ten-year age difference seems perfect.
Our cultural differences allow him the distance from his world, his family
especially, to be able to think of himself as "gay."  My experience had
been that many Italian men liked having sex with other men but considered
themselves completely "normal."  Many of the men I had met in Rome were
married with families.  He professes his love frequently and ardently,
teaching me the distinction in Italian between Volere bene (in English "to
like") and amare ("to love").  My stubbornness in using amare, is greatly
to his amusement, even though he explains that you "love" family and
possibly your country but you "like" a lover because you have chosen him.
You have no choice but to love your family and country: a lover, he
explains, is different.  The idea that I am Enzo's choice gives me great
pleasure.  I am proud to be seen with him, to be identified as his lover.

If Enzo's reluctance to let me fuck him persists, his proficiency at
fucking me increases by leaps and bounds.  Thinking about this makes me
uneasy, until we are doing it.  On every occasion I give in to his urging
as though for the first and last time.  His favorite position is to
manouevre me on to my side while he kisses my neck, massages my nipples and
plays with my balls.  Often we will wind up in the reversed position, with
me about to fuck his delectably puckered asshole, but invariably he will
grease up my throbbing cock and encourage me to fuck him between the legs.

We sometimes have arguments, especially about my calling him at home or his
cancelling appointments at the last minute.  As we grow easier and more
sure of one another we can broach the subject of our sexual desire for
others.  The first time we actually do anything about it is at the
neighborhood cafe where we we are viewed with curiosity.  On this evening
we notice two men seated at a nearby table. Thinking they look straight out
of a Pasolini film I decide they are beyond my experience.  Enzo reads my
thoughts and his disarming, pacifying smile announces: "They're sexy,
aren't they.  This is something we can share."  I am confused and a little
overwhelmed by the speed which the situation advances.  After a couple of
words, an exchange of smiles and peremptory greetings they are sitting at
our table.  Something about Enzo's manner, his calm, his mood of playful
sexiness, puts me at ease and I can feel excitement mounting in
anticipation of what might happen.

Back at the apartment (it is night and the prying portiere is not to be
seen) Enzo takes over as host and does the "onori di casa," showing our
guests the view and offering drinks and coffee.  I am still apprehensive,
thinking they seem rough.  We leave them on the terrace and while making
coffee in the kitchen I ask Enzo if he thinks it is ok He nods reassuringly
and tells me reassuringly that they are ragazzi per bene whom he has seen
around.

One of the visitors, Sandro, is tall and solidly built.  His head of tight
curls that makes him look like a Mannerist angel out of a painting by
Parmigianino.  His is a completely natural masculinity with a captivating
earthiness subjacent to his recently acquired urbanity.  He explains that
he is currently doing interior decoration and shows his calloused hands as
proof.  He has scrubbed himself after work but vestiges of white paint
still cling to his fingernails and a fragment of plaster is enmeshed in his
curls.  I detect his interest in Enzo.  Calogero, Sandro interjects that he
likes to be called Cal, is a co-worker and definitely the less extrovert of
the two.  Sandro has established a style of mild deprecatory banter in
Cal's regard.  Cal has a small hard body and a delicate, classical head.
He might easily fit into the Roman armor whose small size so surprised me
at the museum.  His eyes are black and gleam with inborn haughtiness.
Though not as robustly sexy as Sandro I suspect he is the more interesting
of the two.  He gives nothing away, however, taking his cues from Sandro.
Sipping his coffee he follows intently our every word of small talk.

Seated on the terrace sofa with Sandro between us, it is hard to know what
Enzo and I should do.  He and I have momentarily lost contact and the
situation is strange for me.  Sandro brings about a certain resolution by
putting his hands on our thighs and laughingly suggesting we all make love
together.  I declare myself willing and so does Enzo.  Cal feigns
indifference and agrees to follow us into the bedroom.  We take off our
clothes and pile onto the bed where Sandro falls on top of Enzo kissing him
passionately.  Not wanting to leave Cal out of things I put my arm around
his shoulder and kiss him gently on the neck.  He is awkward and unyielding
at first, obviously aroused to judge by his erection.  He allows me to kiss
him on the mouth but I can tell that he is watching Sandro's glorious
buttocks as he writhes about on top of Enzo.  I wonder if he is interested
in me at all.

In an effort at integrating the proceedings I shift closer to Sandro and
Enzo so that they aren't tempted to get too exclusively involved.  I slip
down between Sandro's muscular thigns and begin exploring this exciting
landscape with my hands and tongue.  Sandro's cock is lined up with Enzo's,
sandwiched between their stomachs.  I alternate massaging and licking their
balls, with special attention to Sandro's big loose sac.  I make an
exploratory run up through the crevice of his hard buttocks and reassure
myself that he is clean.  (Does everyone in Naples use Palmolive -I wonder
giddily that it might be good to have shares in the company).  Cal is now
lying next to Sandro and Enzo: Sandro's big arm around his shoulders,
drawing him into a three-way kiss.  I give Cal's cock the benefit of my now
very hot and wet mouth.  It is like iron -almost unpleasantly so,
uncircumcised, the skin is stretched almost to breaking point and the head
emerges angry and bright pink.  He is streaming with pre-cum which
lubricates his cock.  I go easily, afraid he might come too quickly.

When I move round to the other side of Sandro, Enzo turns toward me, his
eyes closed in ecstasy, and kisses me long and deeply.  His mouth tastes
unfamiliar and I can smell Sandro's pungent odor beginning to dominate the
scene.  It is very sexy.  Enzo extricates himself from under Sandro who
turns on his back.  Enzo and I both begin sucking his cock and balls.
Sandro kneels up on the bed to give us a broader area to work on.  I go
round back and bury my face in his ass.  His asshole is as muscular as the
rest of him.  He distends it to allow my tongue to enter but when Enzo
squeezes his big cockhead down his throat it makes Sandro close his
sphincter, forcing my tongue out.  He is very excited now and our combined
attentions have brought him close to orgasm.  I notice that Cal has
dissappeared and this distracts me.  Reluctantly I get up from the bed to
see what he is up to, leaving Enzo and Sandro alone.

The bathroom is empty and Cal is nowhere to be seen in the apartment.  I
step out onto the terrace and find him stretched out on the sofa.  In the
darkness it seems he is smiling and in answer to my Come Va he tells me he
finds the "porcherie" in the bedroom not to his liking.  I sit on the edge
of the sofa and caress his chest and defined abdomen.  .His cock
immediately snaps to attention, so erect that it will be difficult to suck
as it adheres to his lower stomach.  When I begin running my tongue over
the shiny surface of Cal's cock he shudders and grips the armrest behind
him with both hands.  My instinct is to make him come quickly so that I
will be able to join Enzo and Sandro in the bedroom.  Cal puts one leg up
over the back of the sofa so I can lick his balls and then I travel down to
the area below them before making a preliminary foray to his tiny puckered
asshole.  Cal's hard small buttocks excite me and the idea of fucking him
begins to take over my imagination.  I wonder if I can manage without
lubricant and begin pushing saliva into and around his hole.  This drives
him wild and I can see threads of pre-cum flipping into the air off his
vivacious bouncing cock.  Moving into position between his legs I start to
wet my cock.  I have a larger head than most and it is sometimes a problem
at penetration.  Cal knows now that I am trying to fuck him and I can see
the conflict on his face.  I whisper "Let me do it" and try to smile
reassuringly.  He hesitates and I move up over him and kiss him gently on
the lips.  My cock presses against his and I can feel him yielding, his
lips parting in excitement.  I pry his mouth open with my tongue.  His
expression has changed and he seems more trusting, his eyes have widened
into a childlike gaze.  I can feel his cock pushing imperatively against
me.  It is now or never I think and move into position with his legs
spread.  I begin slipping my cockhead into his hole which is incredibly
tight.  He closes his eyes and grimaces.  I edge forward -spit is not an
ideal lubricant but my cock has begun to ooze and this makes it easier.
Another move, some gentle pressure and my head slips past the sphincter.
Cal bends forward to stop me but I remain still and reassure him gently.  I
am afraid to play with his cock because he seems so close to orgasm.  I
remain in his ass and for the first time am aware of the commingled moans
coming from the bedroom.  It sounds as though a heroic orgasm is in
progress.  Cal moves slightly in an attempt to take more of my cock up his
ass.  He is clearly in ecstasy with his eyes closed and his mouth
half-open.  The position is uncomfortable so I gently manoeuvre him around
on my cock until he is on his side and we are both lying down.  This
operation has allowed my cock to enter him completely and I am aware of
nothing else but this boy's compact body and my cock buried in his hot
rectum.  I begin to fuck him thoroughly, taking my cock right out passed
the sphincter and then re-entering him.  I do this faster and faster until
we both come.  I lie holding him tightly, he is silent.  I wonder if he has
fallen asleep.  He says "Grazie" at the edge of audibility and I kiss him
on the neck.

I hear running water from the bathroom and imagine that Enzo and Sandro
have come up for air.  Enzo is alone in the bedroom lying with his face
turned to the wall.  I lean down to kiss him on the nape of the neck and he
stirs.

"Did you have fun?" He asks me sleepily.

"What about you?"

In the living room Cal and Sandro are talking in an exaggeratedly normal
way.  I protest that they should stay and have a drink but they insist that
they must be home.  We exchange telephone numbers and kiss goodnight.  In
the bedroom Enzo is lying with his ass raised provocatively on a pillow his
head turned and resting on one arm.  I linger at kissing the instep of his
foot and suck on his toes one by one.  When I move up his leg my lips and
tongue make contact with the raspy hair of his lower legs before reaching
the oasis of his inner thighs.  The hairless skin here is smooth and
fine-textured.  He groans as I move up towards his ass.  Flecking his balls
lightly with my tongue I begin exploring his beguiling ass crack.  It is no
longer clean.  But the sexy, musky odour is not sweat nor even the faint
smell of shit.  I wonder if Sandro might have come between his legs and in
his crack.  Spreading his cheeks to get a better look I can see that his
asshole is pink and distended.  Sandro fucked him!  I am sure of it.  My
tongue confirms what my eyes can see: Sandro has fucked his ass and left
his load inside.  Enzo has not even bothered to clean up.  I am angered but
also excited by the erotic complexity of this situation, and I can sense
Enzo's excitement as well.  He goes down on my cock, sucking hungrily,
taking the head down his throat so far that it makes him gag.  I turn him
around so I can suck him, we are both at the edge of orgasm.  My head
burrows between his legs and I plunge my tongue into his asshole.  It is
relaxed and welcoming and I guess the time is ripe to get my cock in there
as well.  But Enzo has other ideas.  He slides out of our sixty-nine
position and comes up behind me, pushing me down on the bed over the
pillows.  His cock stabs at my unprepared sphincter and finally plunges
right in, his arms pinning me to the bed.  He fucks me viciously and at
length until we both come.

In the days that follow I bring up our "orgy."  Enzo is taciturn and
evasive.  "Yes I enjoyed it." is all he will say.  He admits that Sandro
and Cal are simpatici.  To my question about whether we should do it again
he answers curtly "Let's see."  I want to ask him why, if he claims never
to have been fucked and not to like it, did he let Sandro fuck him.  I
imagine that the bigger stronger Sandro might have semi-raped him but it
doesn't seem like Enzo to have allowed this, at least not without a
struggle.  I decide to let the matter drop, especially as any mention of
the evening causes Enzo to pout, tainting our time together with an
uncharacteristic melancholy.

Enzo and I plan a long weekend out of Naples during his school vacation.
He is left in the care of his beloved Nonna, a maternal Aunt who has lived
with the family from his infancy and dotes on him.  His parents are seeing
to "their land" which leaves Enzo free to do as he pleases for several
weeks.  As far as they are concerned he is going on a school outing.  He
suggests we go to Caserta as part of our four-day jaunt, an hour's drive
from Naples.

While Caserta is best known for its magnificent Reggia, the great Bourbon
country palace, for many its name recalls the Army base nearby and the
institution of Military Service, mandatory for Italian men.  For Enzo and
many a young conscript recruit at the Army base it is also the city of the
notorious Scuola da Ballo or Dancing School.  Enzo has never been there but
has heard of it from friends and we are both intrigued.

Our arrival in Caserta on Friday morning gives us time to find an anonymous
modern hotel just outside of town and then investigate the town itself.
Caserta is little more than the junction of two avenues and a network of
narrower back streets.  We decide to reconnoitre the centro for the Dance
School and find it almost at once.  We enter to inquire about the "lessons"
and encounter a distinguished man in his fifties.  He is friendly and
offers to show us the theatre.  Thrusting forward his hand he declaims "De'
Crescenzi" in the manner of Italian aristocrats.  In response we mumble our
names and follow him.  The "school" is actually a small Rococco theatre
built in the nineteenth century in what was then an old- fashioned and
eclectic roccoco style.  It was used for opera and is now occasionally
visited by theatre or opera companies.  I notice a poster announcing
performances of L'Amico Fritz and Manon Lescaut by the Teatro Lirico di
Trieste but it is several years out of date.  The theatre itself is in the
classical Italian style: a horseshoe shaped auditorium with tiers of boxes
lining the walls and plush gilded chairs arranged in rows on the orchestra
floor.  Candelabras carry swags of cut glass which when lit only dimly
illuminate the gilded nymphs, cupids and satyrs that stare blankly,
blissfully into space.  Signor De' Crescenzi explains that he is the
hereditary owner, the fourth generation of a theatrical and artistic
family.  His great-grandfather, a nobleman with large estates in the Molise
region had ruined himself over an opera singer whom he had heard in Naples
and then followed north as far as St. Petersburg. She herself had been
Swedish.  When her career faltered she agreed to marry him and live in
Italy where he tried to relaunch her career.  He had built the theatre in
Caserta for her comeback but it was too late and the provincial audiences
("alas, they were the same as today's" he emphasized with an expression of
disdain) wanted high notes and trills.  His great grandmother had not been
the ordinary "canary."  Her portrait, prominently displayed outside the
auditorium, shows her costumed as Norma.  She had been a great beauty
whatever her vocal gifts.

Signor De' Crescenzi treats us with gentleness and unexaggerated
refinement.  His devotion to the theatre is obvious from his careful and
affectionate account ot the theatre's history.  He hopes to revive opera
performances in "such an acoustic jewel."  When I mention the Scuola da
Ballo he turns to me as though to emphasize his savoir-faire: "Ah, well
that is a different sort of cultural event.  Dancing is an invaluable
social skill -non‚ vero?"

We reach a door on the second floor emblazoned with large gold letters:
Salone Ristoro.  The proprietor seems especially proud of these rooms,
which, considering the modest size of the theatre, are disproportionately
grandiose.  To my comments he explains that the social events expected to
accompany opera performances were often more important than the operas
themselves.  Intervals between acts were long and promenades were
obligatory.  The first of three reception rooms, linked to the others by
large double doors, occupies almost the entire height of the building: its
impression of lofty elegance is achieved by the use of painted ceilings,
mirrored walls and a large scale parquet floor. It was the perfect theatre
lobby.  Who would not have felt the desire to swagger at seeing their
reflection in such mirrors.  A casual observer might not be aware of the
additional rooms that open out of this lobby as they occupy an area to one
side of the theatre above the adjacent buildings.

Signor De Crescenzi opens the doors of the adjoining room which is round
with a domed ceiling.  A gallery circles the room at half height and can
only be reached from one of the upper floors of the theatre. This room has
no other function than its charm and the opportunity for a trompe l'oeil
ceiling complete with lattice, vines and fluttering songbirds.
 "This room and the one after it were kept locked and disused for almost
one hundred years."  Signor De'Crescenzi tells us.  "I had them restored
when I inherited the building."  The last room is a long oval with a double
gallery that can be reached by a narrow double stair.  As it is entirely
mirrored the actual volume of the room is deceptive.  The old lead glass
has begun to darken unevenly and this gives it a cloudlike quality, as
though a haze fills the space, dulling the lustre of gold and crystal.  A
bar complete with espresso machine and rows of gleaming wine glasses
suggests a more practical, contemporary use.  A grand piano, shrouded and
stilled, is pushed against one wall.  At the end of the tour we thank our
guide and inquire about the Dancing School session on Sunday night.
"Anytime from eight o'clock on."  he tells us with an imperceptible little
bow.

The ancient tradition of same-sex dancing in Southern Italy is probably
familiar to many non- Italians from films.  In a society where separation
of the sexes has always been strictly observed, the practice of intimate,
affectionate same-sex relationships has not only been accepted but is
actively encouraged.  Pre-marital sex and its concomitant risk of
illegitimacies (in pre-condom days) wrought social and economic disaster.
Friendships between men are allowed wide latitude in Southern Italy.
Homosexuality, although condemned by the Church (along with all sex outside
marriage) was and is considered a minor sin -a mere peccadillo, a sin of
the flesh to which all humankind is prone.  Male sexual urges are regarded
as protean forces which can be expected to include both men and women in
its perspective.  Thus there was nothing out of the ordinary about a Dance
School that had evening sessions exclusively for men.  That this "School"
was located in a town with a barracks harboring hundreds of eighteen to
twenty-four year olds without girlfriends or funds and possessing
prodigious libidinal energy would not have come to the attention of the
"authorities" as it might have elsewhere.

Wandering the central streets of Caserta, we watch young military recruits,
paired off romantically, innocently, immersed in each other like lovers.
We find a trattoria, old- fashioned and reassuring.  Enzo becomes serious
when considering the menu: food is like religion with him, brooking no
discussion.  In the evening he will never eat pasta which he insists can
only be digested properly at the midday meal.  He is scandalized by my
ordering lasagna.  Several glasses of wine render us carefree and festive
and we decide to investigate the Cin‚ma Eros which we had observed
earlier.

The theatre is full of militari.  The smell of cheap Italian tobacco and
stale body odor is strong but not entirely unpleasant.  We find seats and
almost immediately Enzo goes off to the men's room.  The film appears to be
a Swedish sex education documentary.  The camera is relentless in exploring
the tallow hued bodies of the protagonists as they move dispassionately
through a Scandinavian Kama Sutra.  The young conscript next to me is
crazed with exitement and his leg falls against mine.  I increase the
pressure from my side and he responds so I put my hand on his thigh.  The
screen is filled with the image of a clinically lit coitus a tergo.  In the
pursuit of sexual truth and the glory of science, the young Swede's asshole
can be seen opening and closing like a blind eye as he mechanically drives
in and out of the spread-legged blonde beneath him.  My hand finds the hard
cock in my neighbour's trousers and he lets out an aspirated groan.  I
hesitate to continue as the theatre is so full.  I beckon him to follow and
make my way to the darkness in the back of the theatre.  We embrace,
although he is careful to avoid anything like a kiss.  He is small and wiry
and keeps muttering "Dov‚ lo mettiamo?"  Literally where should we
put it -meaning the angry hard cock that is now out of his pants and oozing
pre-cum all over my corduroy trousers.  I bend to suck him and he explodes
into and all over my face.  He is apologetic about the mess and offers me
his pristine handkerchief.  Having had an orgasm he quickly leaves, but not
without whispering "Ciao ... Grazie."

The seats in the theatre have now all been occupied and I look for Enzo in
the men's room.  He is nowhere to be found although every urinal is
occupied and there seems to be lots of activity.  Back in the theatre I
find Enzo once again.  We find seats right under the screen and watch the
rest of the film with suppressed howls of laughter.  On the way to the car
he asks me where I had disappeared and I tell him about the overexcited
young recruit.  He laughs and inspects my hair for semen.  Something in his
manner makes me wonder what he had been up to in the men's room.

On Sunday we inspect the great palace built by the Kings of Naples about
five miles from the old city of Caserta.  By mid-afternoon exhausted with
walking through State Rooms and Galleries, we take refuge in the gardens
behind the palace.  I explain something of the history of the great
European garden to Enzo. He is intrigued by the concept of the picturesque
and I do my best to explain it to him.  Seen from the palace windows, the
great fountains at the far end of the vista had looked so grand.  When we
reach them they are scrawled with ribald graffiti and full of banal refuse.
Enzo launches into his tirade about Italians and their lack of pride in
their heritage.  It is remarkable how bitter he becomes on the subject of
his countrymen, his culture.  If I venture a criticism he becomes defensive
and angry.  Whenever he laments the "miserable state of things" I hear a
voice that is not his, which I imagine to be his father's.  At these
moments his anger and the occasional excursion into dialect threatens to
turn him into a stranger.

Like a momentary bout of inclement weather, Enzo's indignation soon
disappears.  We have wandered deep into the Giardino Inglese.  It is
romantically overgrown and unkempt.  We find a little temple folly and
explore it's vandalized interior, the walls covered with an iridescent
green lichen.  In a corner a pile of crumpled paper napkins gives evidence
of a prostitute's al fresco sexual encounters.  I put my arm across Enzo's
shoulders and press my face against his neck.  His hair smells warm and
slightly nutty.  He turns and we kiss.  I am suddenly reminded of the
limited remainder of my stay in Naples.  Enzo is irreplaceable, life has
become unthinkable without him .  He becomes thoughtful as I tell him this.
We walk back towards the entrance to the Reggia and I broach the subject of
him coming to live with me in Rome.  The lines in his forehead are deeper
than usual and I realize I have introduced a serious topic.  We are so
close at this moment and yet he seems to be searching for a suitable facade
in order to shield the chaos I have introduced by asking him to live with
me.  We wander on in silence, back past the great building with its
expansive, placid facade the noble entrance front the palace of Caserta
proffers to its visitors.  Behind it, gathered into an uneasy order are the
ceremonial staircases, grand salons, marbled bathrooms, domestic rooms,
apartments, acres of servants quarters, dark basements, stables and dreary
corridors of empty rooms that were never assigned any purpose.  My thoughts
about Enzo living in Rome conjure up the pleasure it would give me to be
his guide.

Enzo tells me he will think about it.  Which means he won't think about it
at all.  In any case he assures me he will come and visit -especially
during his long holidays.  He has relatives in Rome. Staying with them
would explain things to his parents and he is sure they will let him do as
he likes.  I can tell from his regained composure that he has begun to plan
the complex system of lies and half-truths that are his reality.

At the Scuola da Ballo on Sunday evening there are already six or seven
"studenti" when Enzo and I arrive.  The double storied salone has been
rearranged so that small caf‚ tables and chairs now fill the outside
perimeter, leaving a small dance area in the middle.  A tinny boom box
roars vintage Italian rock and roll in which some Neapolitan descendants of
Caruso croon sentimental ballads against pulsating backgrounds.  We take
places at an empty table.  Signor De'Crescenzi advances toward us with
glasses and a carafe of wine, "compliments of the house."  He murmurs
indistinctly that the "giovani stranieri" are welcome and then returns to
his post near the bar.

Soon a few couples have braved the dance floor but to my surprise, whatever
the music, they are dancing in tight embrace.  This is the pattern, a
delightful anachronistic way of snuggling up to another man without
incurring the insulting epithet: froscio, faggot.  Enzo and I giggle at the
spectacle of erections straining in trousers as the participants return to
their tables.  None of them seem conscious or concerned about this general
state of arousal.  We talk with a table of young conscripts near us and one
of them asks Enzo to dance.  Soon another asks me and we are both engaged
in passionate embraces.  My partner is fascinated that I am American and
able to speak Italian..  Meanwhile our cocks are rubbing against each other
and I can hardly catch my breath for the excitement.  After slowly grinding
our way through three tracks of what sounds like an amorous goatherd's
yodelling, my partner, Claudio, asks if I want to "fare una passegiata,"
literally "take a stroll."  I look around on the now crowded dance floor
but cannot locate Enzo.  By now my curiosity about Claudio has begun to dim
my vigilance about Enzo.

We walk out one of the upper gallery doors into the darkened corridors of
the theatre.  Claudio seems very familiar with the place and has the
determination of someone who knows exactly what he wants.  He leads me into
one of the boxes then closes and locks the door.  He kisses with passion
but without expertise.  Our hands are all over one another.  He kneads and
spreads my ass cheeks while he grinds his pelvis into my crotch.  He opens
my shirt and undoes my belt so that my trousers fall to the ground.  I
gradually reveal his lean muscular body, peeling off his shirt and
underwear.  He has a wiry cock that stands so erect it cleaves to the
rippled muscles of his lower abdomen.  I embrace him and feel his hard
small ass which I can cup in my hands.  Raising his arms, I apply my tongue
to his armpits.  He has long silky black hair under his arms but his chest
is quite hairless.  The steamy odor of fresh sweat is intoxicating.  "
Dov‚ lo mettiamo?" (where should we put it?)  Again that question: I
wonder if it is taught in catechism classes along with "Why did God make
me?"  He speaks with a hushed urgency -there is no doubt what is on his
mind but I am not sure I want to be fucked up the ass and summarily
dismissed as is usual in these circumstances.  I decide to stall by falling
to my knees and sucking him.  His cock begins to secrete pre-cum almost at
once and he is shaking with excitement.  I focus my attention on his tight
ballsack and then lick the raised taut ridge, a serpentine tube that leads
between his legs to his asshole.  He is about to cum all over me and I
decide it is time he did something to me.  Standing up I indicate that I
want him to suck me.  He makes a pathetic attempt and after persistently
scraping my cockhead with his teeth I pull him up by the shoulders and we
kiss.  He works his way behind me and begins jabbing the general region of
my asshole with his prick.  It reminds me of dogs mating: a turnoff.

Just as I am trying to devise a way of cooling things down, voices can be
heard in the adjacent box.  Claudio puts his ear to the connecting door and
whispers, "Lo stanno inculando -senti" "They're fucking someone, can you
hear."  He opens the door a couple of inches and I see Enzo being fucked by
a short bullish man with powerful muscles and a close-shaven military
haircut.  I can see and hear everything clearly.  The man's thick long cock
slowly, methodically, relentlessly is plowing my lover's tight asshole.
Enzo is bent over a gilded chair.  Alongside a cherub-faced boy jerks
himself off with total abandon.  The fucker groans, muttering repeatedly, I
think he is calling Enzo his troia, his whore.  Occasionally he will pull
his cock all the way out with a wet-sounding "plop" so that I can see the
large plum shaped head.  It glistens lasciviously in the theatre's amber
light.  Then he slowly pushes it in and Enzo sighs.  When he begins to
speed up, smacking his balls against Enzo's ass he emits high-pitched
animal cries, somewhere between pleasure and pain, or perhaps a combination
of both.  I have no thoughts and feel Claudio slipping into my ass.  He
fucks me brutally and after a dozen deep jabs he comes and so do I,
spontaneously, my cock untouched., juice flying in every direction.

The return to the hotel is tense and silent between us.  In bed beside me
Enzo is restless.  His eyes are closed but he does not sleep.  I
contemplate the whorls of hair at the nape of his neck, the translucent
shell of his ear.  He lies with one arm crossed beneath his head, half on
his side, back slightly arched, the gentle dual hillocks of his ass in
shadowy relief.  I slip his briefs down and he murmurs an incoherent
protest.  Fucking Enzo will erase the events of last night.  My cock is
rock hard at the thought.  I embrace him from behind, reaching aroung to
reassure myself that Enzo is hard.  He wriggles slightly as I grip his cock
simultaneously dragging my tongue across his back, through the little grove
of silky brown hair at the indentation just before the crack of his ass
delineates and deepens.  My tongue moves inexorably towards his opening,
his skin smells musky and vanilla.  When I reach his asshole I spread the
cheeks to give maximum access and begin rimming the corrugated, sensitive
surround.  If I can excite him sufficiently he will open up and welcome my
cock.  My plan is to get him so aroused that he will beg to be fucked.  The
sphincter relaxes unable to resist my plunging, licking tongue.  The
lubricant is nearby on the bed and I lavish it over my cock.  Working my
knees up between his legs to spread him as much as possible I get ready to
penetrate.  He tenses as though contemplating my next move.  I hold my
breath and put the head of my cock at his hole.  He turns abruptly: "No
...basta ...non voglio" I am too close to orgasm and he kneels in front of
me pressing his body against mine, kissing me, pushing his tongue deep into
my mouth and we pump cum all over each other's stomachs.

On the way back to Naples we decide to take a detour to see the remains of
ancient Roman site that has only recently been unearthed.  Enzo is more
silent than usual.  After stopping for coffee I broach the subject of his
being fucked by the soldiers in Caserta and his persistent refusal to be
fucked by me.  "It hurts when you do it." is his terse reply.  "You're too
big."  "Well that's sort of flattering, but it's not true."  Enzo is silent
for a few moments.  "I think it's because I love you.  Making love with you
is different."

He puts his hand on my thigh and I place mine on top of it.

"But I feel as though it is a part of you that I don't know.  A pleasure
you reserve for others and refuse me.  How do you think it makes me feel."

Enzo's voice is husky and low.  "O.K. ... Let's try."

The road is deserted except for fields of vegetables on either side.  I
stop near a group of trees and Enzo wastes no time in going down on me,
sucking my cock with an inspired passion.  I take him by the head, my hands
full of his hair, and turn his face toward mine.  His mouth is wet with
saliva and smells deliciously of my cock and balls.  His kiss is one of
absolute capitulation -he says breathlessly "You can fuck me.  I'll let you
hurt me -it doesn't matter, I love you."  We get out of the car and walk
into the cool darkness of the wood.  It has begun to rain and thunder
growls ominously somewhere just beyond the surrounding hills.  There is a
huge plastic covered greenhouse nearby -an entire field covered by wooden
battens and translucent sheeting.  Lifting a corner we take refuge inside,
it is still and warm.

Enzo undoes his trousers and drops them around his ankles.  My finger
traces the puckered circle of his asshole.  I wet him as well as I can -his
excitement takes the form of babyish moans.  I step behind him and tell him
to bend over.  He shows his willingness by arching down and grabbing his
ankles.  This opens his hole invitingly - right down to the silky pink
lining.  It also tenses all the muscles in his thighs and lower back I am
dizzy with lust as I wet the head of my cock.  But I am losing my erection.
The storm now begins to break in earnest.  Rain beats down on the
opalescent covering producing an incredible din.

"What's the matter" asks Enzo.

"I don't know.  It must be the storm."

He smiles and kisses me, then we embrace tightly, fiercely, an absurd sight
with our pants down around our ankles.  A gust of wind inflates the plastic
sheeting, which strains noisily at the fragile wooden cage of the
greenhouse.  Then it exhales with a colossal sigh.

Copyright 2001.  All Rights Reserved.