Date: Sun, 4 Sep 2016 21:25:32 +0100 From: Nick Wyatt Subject: Things we learnt in Rome This is a work of pure fiction, none of the characters or events written here have any basis in fact at all. If you would like to comment or criticise, I would love to read what you think; please email me at nickwyatt42@gmail.com. Part One. Things we learnt in Rome and other lessons As a Catholic Boys' school, you might expect us to have close connections to Rome and to organise quite frequent visits to the Holy City. Well perhaps we weren't very holy, or perhaps we didn't have quite the Jesuitical enthusiasm that we should have had, because our visit to Rome was the first for the school in almost twenty years. Apparently, the previous visitors from our school had travelled by train, across Eastern France and through Switzerland and the majestic Alps, thundering through the Po valley and Tuscany, then into Umbria and then Lazio in romantic glory. Us? We flew from Luton Airport: not quite the same. Anyway, we arrived in Rome in the early evening of a day in late May. The journey from Fiumicino into the city was tedious and difficult as we were all tired already. And as soon became evident, none of our schoolmasters actually knew where we were going, and so we wandered about in the northern fringes of the Italian capital looking for a slightly elusive location. As I understood it, it was like looking for the `Hotel Excellent' on the `High Street' without knowing which particular district this particular `High Street' was in. After a couple of false locations, Doctor Jeffries managed to identify the correct district and we happily trooped a further kilometre or so to our hotel. Our schoolmasters stood us outside the hotel while they confirmed with the Manager or owner the number of rooms reserved and their configuration. Next we were called forward and ascribed our room numbers. Pretty soon, we all understood the reasoning behind the allocation. Possible `troublemakers' were being split up and domiciled with more innocuous members of the party. Before we had left Hertfordshire, we had been asked who we would like to share rooms with, and now it seemed as though that information was being used against us to distance each of us from our friends and allies. "Room 127! Listen up, please. This will be Newman, Taylor and St Aubyn! Room 127." Oh no! Newman was a football-crazy yob and Taylor was a reclusive swot. Me, I was just a sex maniac. My preferred companions, Raymond York and dirty Gerald Osborne were banished equally to other, less lascivious company. It wasn't a large hotel at all and it seemed as though the proprietor had stretched the accommodation slightly beyond capacity to accommodate our party of 32 boys and four schoolmasters. Our school party was aged from thirteen to seventeen and all of us were studying towards Latin or Italian O or A level over the next year or so. Our parents had been asked if they wished for their sons to visit Rome as a `cultural and religious experience', but most of us were here to escape school and have a good time. As we were assigned our rooms, the hotel manager Signor Bonnaldi passed one of the occupants a room key with almost ceremonious formality. Signor Bonnaldi was almost the music hall Italian. He was dark, and rather stocky with wavy, black hair and a slick moustache. He dressed in rather formal and ill-fitting suits and despite all this I immediately liked him. So when he passed out the precious room keys to each party, it almost seemed as though he was dispensing holy water or relics or something infinitely precious: but to me, he winked, I bowed and he stifled a snigger. Room 127 was reached by a tiny staircase behind the Reception desk and above it was a bathroom on a mezzanine level and Room 227 on the next level up. The rooms seemed rather tucked away and almost annexed from the main part of the hotel. Montfort, De Wyeth and Ascari were assigned to the room above ours – 227. Michael Ascari was slight, dark haired lad, and as his name suggested his father was Italian and Michael could speak the language astonishingly well. "I'm not fluent or anything, of course. Dad didn't sort of teach me as such, I just picked up bits and pieces." Despite his self-deprecation, his Italian was better than any of our schoolmasters; even Dr Jeffries – who actually taught Italian and Latin. "Right, get settled in you fellas! Dinner will be in less than twenty minutes in the dining room below. Listen up for the bell, and please and come down immediately but in an orderly fashion!" That was Father Brian, one of our more approachable masters, organising his troops. He was big, hairy and almost permanently unshaven. Today we'd call it 'designer stubble', but back then, Father Brian just looked a mess; a big-hearted, Irish mess. I thought he was wonderful. Room 127 was actually rather too small to accommodate three single beds plus two wardrobes. In addition, it housed a tiny table with two chairs below the window on the short wall at the end. Between the beds, there was really only room to shuffle sideways. Strangely, one of the wardrobes was locked and no key was evident. Of course, we threw our stuff into our room, bagged the beds accordingly and tore up the stairs to see what 227 was like. It was almost exactly the same and they had an identical wardrobe to one of ours but theirs was unlocked with the key in the door. Somewhere in the lower floors of the hotel, we heard the tinkling of a small hand bell. That must be the call to dinner and so we followed the stairs down to the lounge and dining rooms on the floor below reception. Pasta with tomato sauce, followed by a cutlet in breadcrumbs with salad. Plus a sort of cake for desert and some fruit. Great! It really filled the space. The lounge was larger than I expected with easy chairs and a television mounted on one wall, and attached to the lounge was a sort of games room with table football, a couple of card tables, more seating and another television. And there was a long balcony leading off from there into the warm darkness; quite romantic really. At about ten in the evening, we were sent to our rooms, and although we were all weary the first night away from home was just too exciting for most of us to sleep. I washed and changed into a pair of lightweight pyjama trousers, the room was a bit too warm to justify a top to my way of thinking. Alan Taylor had taken his pyjamas to the bathroom with him to wash and change, and he returned in crisply ironed flannel pyjamas. I was certain that he would roast in bed. Malcolm Newman stripped off there and then and pulled on a pair of football shorts to sleep in. Eventually, we must have slept, but I had been very aware that Alan had been tossing and turning for some time into the night. I don't think he was used to sleeping away from home or sharing a bedroom. Mind you, the bed covers were a bit odd. Rather than sheets and blankets, or even a proper, soft quilt, the bedding was a rather stiff quilty thing that didn't bend around you very much and could leave you exposed at the sides. Strangely uncomfortable. Off we went for the day's collective activities; Trevi Fountains, Piazza Navona, the Pantheon and the Jewish area. Around mid-afternoon, we were dismissed and given some free time to explore the city ourselves. Ray York and I went looking for clothes and action, rather than art or culture. We found the former, but no action. We were required to return to the hotel by six in the evening for roll call and dinner. That evening, there was football match on the television – commentary in Italian of course – and the footy boys disappeared into the games room to watch and shout and sing. I stayed well clear, and apparently they managed to smuggle in a bottle of Bacardi rum somehow and were swigging it with coca-cola. When the match concluded, they were all more than slightly tipsy, Malcolm included. When we went to our room, Malcolm fell into his bed and started snoring almost immediately; he was dead to the world. Alan Taylor looked at him with vague irritation and slipped under his weird quilt-thing, wearing his neat pyjamas once again. As much as we didn't want to, Alan and I were forced to listen to Malcolm's rasping snores and snuffles. Alan moved restlessly from one side to the other unable to sleep, and eventually flung back his stifling quilt to try and cool down. I looked across in the gloom, Alan's leg was raised and his knee was illuminated by the light leaking in around the curtains on the unshuttered windows. "Can't sleep?" I whispered. "No. Too hot – and too noisy!" "Nor can I." We lay there in the night time dim, light leaked in through the shutters from the street beyond. Alan was looking at the ceiling and I was looking at Alan. On a complete impulse, I tucked my hanky into the waistband of my pyjama trousers and pulled back my covers. I set one foot on the floor between my bed and Alan's and then lifted the edge of his bulky quilt and slipped in beneath. "What are y-" "Shh! Don't wake him, I can help you sleep." "You can't just-" "Alan, shush. I can and will! It'll be fun." I was desperate to calm him down and get him to shut up, even though I was confident that Malcolm was deep in his drunken sleep. I needed a few seconds only to get Alan's attention and divert him away from feeling that I was an unwelcome intruder. Otherwise I worried that he'd scream and shout the place down about my `unnatural action'. "I know what will help, let me just do this" I continued. And I dived my hand down to the front of his pyjamas, into the gap at the fly and onto his flaccid cock. Let me describe Alan. He had dark brown hair that was deliciously wavy and quite full in the front, it was side parted and brushed up and away from his face. His skin was very clear and rather too delicate for a boy. Gentle features, with full red lips and lovely cheekbones. During the day, he wore thick lens spectacles with fake tortoiseshell frames. I'd watched him changing his clothes, although he preserved his modesty by only removing his underwear in the bathroom. Despite that, I knew his body was slim and hairless (apart from his delicately concealed private parts, I bet) with the sweetest, scalloped bottom imaginable. Twinkus Maximums. At almost my first touch, I felt his willy stir. I closed my hand gently around the shaft and gave it a little rub; he was erecting almost against his will. "No, get off! It's not –" I had to silence him, so I planted my mouth against his and kissed. He didn't kiss back, but at least he stopped trying to speak and didn't struggle or try to push me away. Down below, his willy was erecting nicely. I was pleased to find that he was circumcised, I do prefer them that way. He wasn't terrifically big, but now that he was becoming erect, there was a lovely power and potency to his gorgeous cock. Our mouths broke apart and we both took breaths, while I concentrated on wanking him up nicely. "I want to do this for you Alan, it'll help you sleep." I quickly whispered in reassurance, but he made no reply. I kissed him again as I continued wanking him with my right hand. With my other hand, I pulled the bow of his pyjama cord and swept the flannel aside so that I could get to his willy more easily. Two handed now, I gently teased and tugged his lovely missile as he lay rigid and silent. I don't think anyone had ever done this to him before – male or female – and I really wanted to take his virginity in every way. With my left hand, I traced the very rim of his corona right around, while my right hand slid up and down his shaft. From glans to the little nest of pubic hair was probably only five inches, but it was a lovely five inches. I wanked him determinedly as he lay there, silent, stiff and unresponsive. I gloried in the feel of his cock in my hands; the hot, hard shaft and the gently wrinkled skin that slid back and forth so deliciously. But it wasn't enough for me; I wanted to know more of him. So I slipped away from his pretty face and headed under the quilt-thing towards his groin. I took his glans in my mouth, kissing it and licking the frenulum. Outside the quilt, I heard him hiss as my lips encountered his willy, and as I began to run my lips up and down his lovely shaft, I heard him gasp. I stayed there as long as I could; sucking and licking his lovely member, but it was just too hot beneath the quilt. I could felt my cheeks beginning to burn, and I really couldn't breathe at all so I disengaged my mouth from his cock and headed for the open air. But as I did so, I felt his stomach muscles tighten and his pelvis tilt up a little. I continued wanking, and his pelvis thrust up again and again. Alan was getting very excited indeed. I nestled my head into the nape of his shoulder and wanked away as he lay rigid alongside me. I wished that I'd had some sort of additional lubricant for him, but he would have to make do with my slightly sweaty hand on his winkie. He flicked his pelvis up again as I wriggled the skin up and down on his gorgeous willy, and I opened out my hanky in anticipation. Here it came. Alan's hands remained fast by his side as he thrust his willy up and into my hands, desperately seeking maximum contact and stimulation. I felt a little fluid and he growled deep in his throat; he was coming and I pushed back the quilt in readiness. Louder, a second growl escaped him as he bucked up. "Shh. Be quiet!" I cautioned, and then in silence, Alan delivered pulse after pulse of semen into my hands and hanky. As he came, his stomach muscles contracted and his head jerked up from the pillow with each contraction and squirt. Absolutely gorgeous to experience. At last, I felt his body begin to relax as his ejaculations subsided. My tugging slowed and stopped, and I carefully began to wipe his semen away with my hanky. I could not believe how much semen Alan had produced, it seemed to be everywhere. Aftershocks bucked through him and his pelvis thrust upwards as I made him nice and clean again. This was the time I loved; I'd completed my side of the bargain and my partner would be in my sexual debt and I could either reclaim that debt immediately or let the debt lie and enjoy the interest. I kissed him on the cheek and slid back to my own bed with my disgusting hanky. Neither of us said anything as we continued to endure the rasping snore of Newman on the far side of the room. Presently, I heard Alan's breathing relax as he drifted off to sleep as well. Now, maybe it's a skill that all boys who have had to share bedrooms or dormitories have learned: the ability to masturbate in total silence and with virtually no movement. I call it my `one inch wank' in honour of Bruce Lee's `one inch punch'. So while the other two slept, I added my semen to my soggy hanky. The next morning, Malcolm disappeared to the bathroom last of all, and it gave Alan and I the opportunity to be private again. "You're not going to let on are you?" "Me?" I asked. "Let on to whom?" "Y'know, anyone. I don't want them to know. Please." He meant Ray and Gerald and others who had not accompanied us on the trip, but who would just love to hear the `dirty secrets' of their schoolmates. He looked at me most pleadingly, seemingly desperate for confirmation of my discretion. For a moment I wondered why. "I promise, Alan." "And we stay separate outside - during the day, yes?" "Yes, okay." I answered slightly disappointed. I hadn't exactly intended to twirl Alan around by the waist in public and proclaim him as being `with me'. But the discrete separation that he wanted saddened me; I had hoped for a bit of companionship. Alan visibly relaxed and gathered his bits and pieces together for the day. The temperature seemed stiflingly hot already, but Alan packed a jacket carefully into his bag. I watched and wondered at him, he noticed me watching. "Don't laugh! It's just in case it rains." "Not laughing. I just like looking at you." That stopped him and he stood upright, brushing his forelock away from his face with his right hand. "Stop it Charles. Please." I turned away positively boiling with teenage lust. He was so beautiful, it almost hurt to look at him. I turned away stared and across the cramped bedroom and thought again about the locked wardrobe wondering what it could possibly contain. It wasn't a particularly grand looking piece of furniture, in fact it was rather cheap and shabby looking with a slim mirror set into the central panel that reflected a grey and drab image back into the room. But that didn't matter: I was still intrigued as to why it was locked. From the doorway a voice called "You ready, Alan?" "Yup! Let's go." Alan shouldered his bag and gave me a long look as he left the room. On a complete guess, I went up to room 227 above, and borrowed the key from their version of the same piece of furniture. When I got back Malcolm was there, damp from his late shower and still looking a bit groggy. Ignoring him, I tried the borrowed key in the wardrobe lock, and of course their key fitted the wardrobe in our room perfectly. I unlocked it and opened the wardrobe door. It was packed with female clothes – or more precisely, clothes belonging to one woman. It was, quite literally, her entire wardrobe. With underwear, casual clothes, work uniform, shoes, coats – the whole lot. Her work uniform was familiar – of course! It was the same uniform as the waiting staff in the hotel restaurant. I had the entire picture now; I was certain that we were staying in a room normally occupied by one of the waitresses in the restaurant. And to make room for our party, they had been forced to vacate for a few days, but one of them had left her clothes in the wardrobe locked away safely, or so she thought. I touched her clothes, and ran my hand over her soft and fragrant underwear. I am a sexual weirdo, I will openly admit. I have always enjoyed cross-dressing in women's clothing, and enjoying it alone or with appreciative partners. The wardrobe contents were like an Aladdin's cave of beguiling sexual charms. I picked up a pair of fairly small, pale pink panties and just rubbed the soft, translucent fabric in my hands. I wanted to smell them and then step into them and enjoy their tight caress around my genitals, but with Malcolm Newman looking over my shoulder, I didn't dare. I just put them back; carefully folded once more. "So now we know, eh Malcolm! The waitresses' wardrobe." "I bet it all belongs to the one with light brown hair!" He was probably right. She would have been mid twenties and a size ten at the most. The other waitress was at least a size sixteen and probably ten years older. There were voices in the corridor outside our room, so I closed and locked the wardrobe quickly. "I'll take the key back." Malcolm volunteered, and I passed it over without a thought. We had a trip to the Capitol, the Coliseum and the Circus Maximums which were all very exciting, but I found the constant pace of ancient historical culture a little too incessant, I hadn't found anything I could get emotional about yet. It was all a bit remote and dusty. From mid afternoon again, we were granted the freedom to do what we wanted, Ray and Gerald were nowhere to be seen – neither was Alan - and so I wandered off alone. This is what I was used to; being on my own. I am the polar opposite of gregarious and 'in with the crowd'. It had its advantages, but also appalling disadvantages; it made losing a close friend extremely traumatic, but more of that later. I wandered off in the increasingly humid Roman afternoon. This was the kind of weather I loved; sticky and still. The kind of climate where one doesn't feel cold if one is suddenly naked. I wandered almost lonely as a cloud and suddenly found myself at the Spanish Steps. I was about half way up when the first rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. By the time I was at the top of the Steps, the rain was falling absolutely vertically in large splatty drops. Like every other tourist I scuttled across the piazza for cover, but not before getting thoroughly drenched. With half a dozen other teenagers, I huddled for cover from the storm. They were all Spanish; boys and girls and we compressed ourselves under the only shelter in that black and white tiled piazza. The Spanish boys were beautifully attractive with raven black hair and perfect eyebrows. One in particular seemed to be conscious of me and at least partially receptive to my glances. But sadly, the rained eased, the clouds parted and the Spaniards all rushed away before I could take things further. Hauling my soggy map from my pocket, I plotted my way back towards the hotel. And it seemed that all of our school party had returned early for the same reason. As I entered the hotel lobby and turned into the corridor behind reception I was met with the smiling figure of Father Brian blocking my way. "Hiya Charlie! Can you wait a few minutes before going to your room? We've something here that needs clearing up." And he shot me his big, happy, loving grin that was just tinged with a bit of awkwardness. Beyond him, in our room I could hear raised voices in Italian; male and female. "What's happened?" "Nothing much, matey! I suggest you go down to the lounge and wait for a few minutes. Bet you're hungry though, eh?" "Yes, but-" "They tell me it's lasagne for dinner tonight. Can't wait, myself. You go down to the lounge and I'll see you there in a minute or so." I backed off and went down to the lounge as instructed, bewildered and confused. Alan was already there. Like mine, his clothes were damp. Unlike me, he was noticeably scared. "They've found out" He hissed to me. "Found out what?" "About what you did last night." "Couldn't have" I responded nervously. "We'll both be expelled!" "Rubbish." But I was becoming frightened. Very frightened. We scared ourselves into silence as the lounge filled with our schoolmates buzzing with nervous and ill-informed chatter about the events in the corridor behind reception. It was Michael Ascari who began to give us clarity. "Dunno about all this but she was screaming `travestito' and `masturbarso' or something like that." "Who was?" "Think it was one of the waitresses – only think so." "And what's that mean, Mickey?" Although I think I could work it out for myself. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Think it's about people changing into other people's clothes or something and y'know, tossing off." My blood ran cold and my stomach knotted. How could they have found my wanky hanky? We sat and waited, just waited, getting more and more nervous as the time passed. I wanted desperately to see if I could get to my room, but I didn't dare leave the lounge. Opposite me, Alan quite literally sat on his hands and looked sick with fear. On the television, the six pm news started, and as it did so, Father Brian breezed in. "Al and Charlie, can I borrow youse for a sec? Let's go in the dining room." Grey faced with fear, we followed Father Brian through the double doors into the neatly laid dining room. "Sit down, fellas. Hey, don't look so worried! You're not in any trouble!" I exhaled a little and Alan looked up. "It's okay, really. I'd just like to know how things were this morning. Charlie and Alan, did you know about the other wardrobe in yer room?" "I did, Father." I volunteered. "How's that, Charlie?" "Well I couldn't understand why it was locked" "Okay, and then what?" "I borrowed the key from the one in Mickey's room. Cos it's exactly the same." "And?" "I opened it and found it was full of someone else's clothes" I trailed away. "Were you alone, Charlie?" "No Father, Malcolm was with me." "So what happened next, old lad? You'd seen it was packed full of clothes and then what?" "I locked the door again and put the key back." "You put the key back?" "Yes. Actually no, Malcolm took the key from me and said he'd put it back." "Ah, okay. Did y'see him put it back?" "No, Father." "And then what, Charlie?" "Nothing. We all went out, and the day happened." I was slightly nonplussed. "Did you come back to the hotel between times? Y'know, maybe just to get something like an umbrella or jacket?" "No, Father." He turned towards Alan and smiled reassuringly. "An' yerself Al, did y'see any of this?" "No, Father." "An' did you come back in the day?" "No, Father." Father Brian was one of those people with a particular gift. He could look at you and somehow divine whether you were speaking the truth or not. We had both been truthful; but he couldn't see the sin behind my words though. "Thanks both. It'll be fine" he paused and looked over my shoulder. "Wow, he we go then!" And the larger waitress clanged a gong to signal that dinner was about to be served. As her younger colleague wasn't there to help the elder waitress was in sole charge, so our school party sort of queued and she passed out plates of a starter of salami, salad and artichokes followed by a large wedge of lasagne al carne. Absolutely delicious. After dinner, I was still worried and Alan was obviously terrified. Unsure whether we were allowed back into our room, we cowered in the lounge. Father Brian, Dr Jeffries and the other teachers passed this way and that with quiet words for one another. We had no idea what was going on. "Charles and Alan, could I have a word please chaps?" Doctor Jeffries smiled reassuringly as he bent close to us, and we followed him back into the dining room. He gestrured for us to sit at the nearest table. "I expect you're all dried out now after the rain this afternoon, eh?" "Yes sir" "And you must be wondering why you couldn't go to your room as well." He looked into Alan's face and then into mine, still smiling. "Sorry if it made you both rather uncomfy. Nothing to be concerned about, absolutely no need to worry." He paused. "Charles, you really should have left the wardrobe alone." I tried to interrupt, but Dr Jeffries put out a hand to silence me. "I know you were just curious and that you locked it again. But you should really have left it alone." "Sorry sir." "All right, my boy." He paused again, but continued to look at me directly. "And Malcolm was with you when you opened the door, is that correct Charles?" "Yes, sir." "And when you locked it again?" "Yes sir." "Did you do anything Charles, beyond looking at the clothing?" I had touched her knickers. "No sir." He looked at me carefully for a few moments. "Alan, I must ask this. Where were you when this happened?" Alan looked blankly at Dr Jeffries and then to me. "Not sure, sir!" "Alan had already left the room with Montfort from upstairs, Sir" I interjected. "Is that right, Alan?" "Think so, Sir. William and I came down to the lobby – and we spoke to you and Mr Syles, sir!" "Yes, so you did. Quite so Alan. Very well Gentlemen, let's forget it all happened, then." And Dr Jeffries pushed his chair back to get up and leave, what we had told him must have fitted with the information gleaned from Malcolm. "But Sir, what did happen?" This was Alan, concerned and confused. Dr Jeffries sat down again and put his hands to his face as if in prayer for a moment. "Ah, okay. Let's just say that your room mate – Malcolm – became rather too interested in the contents of the locked wardrobe." He smiled again and looked from Alan to me and back again. "Not a healthy interest, you understand." Alan still didn't understand, but I did. Alan looked blankly at Dr Jeffries, who saw his confusion and tried again. "Alan, you need to understand that sometimes young men do unnatural things at some points in their lives. They touch themselves in a sinful manner. Onanism, Alan." And he looked very certainly at Alan. Alan's face fell tragically. "Is that was he was doing, sir?" I asked and Dr Jeffries turned towards me "yes, it looks that way. He was committing mortal sin of course, and we must all endeavour to rise above it. And he was shall we say, experimenting with some of the clothing." Alan looked up quickly and then down again; he had been reminded that masturbation was a mortal sin. My mouth gaped open as I fully understood what Dr Jeffries was saying. Good grief, he'd been caught doing what I loved doing. Jeffries took note of my astonishment. "So Malcolm will be under my care for the rest of our stay here and he will share my room" he continued. "Bit more room for you two then, eh? Cheer up chaps!" And he smiled at us both. He presented this as a simple advantage so that we would still carry positive thoughts of our trip. There was nothing wrong with Dr Jeffries, he was a fine and Christian schoolmaster as far as we knew or were concerned. "Now, I would ask you to be discreet towards your fellow travellers here – we are ambassadors from the School and our country, after all. And when we return home again, these failings of the flesh need not be reported to anyone, do they? Eh Charles, Alan?" We nodded and grunted- "Sir". And there we have it. Malcolm had looked over my shoulder as I fingered the delicious underwear in the wardrobe. And unbeknown to me, he had kept the key to himself and returned in the afternoon to `regale' himself in some of the garments. As he did so, the waitress owner of the clothing had returned to the room and found him partially dressed in, and probably masturbating with, her clothing. No wonder she'd screamed the place down. Malcolm would now be sharing Dr Jeffries' room and under his `special attention' for the duration of the visit, all of which left me alone with Alan. We were of course, absolutely forbidden to mention or discuss the matter with anyone else at all. Ever. I would never have guessed that Newman was that way inclined – as a transvestite I mean- I would simply never have guessed. But there can't be many teenage boys that haven't tried on female underwear just to experience the feel while they desperately wanked off. And that idea fitted the Malcolm I knew far better. Looking back, I'm not sure if Dr Jeffries was interested in boys or not. Perhaps his protective and punitive interest in Newman was cover for a bit of p*hilia. But I don't think so; I'm pretty sure he was nominally homo or heterosexual and simply repressed by his devotion to his religion. But whatever the intention, it left Alan and me alone together. By the time we got back to our room, Malcolm's case and clothes had been removed. Only the ruffled bedclothes showed that he had been there at all. The wardrobe was locked once more. "So he was wearing some of her clothes, was he?" asked Alan incredulously, looking at the wardrobe as though it posed a physical threat. "Seems that way." "Wow." We went to bed at lights out and I think we both slept well in the slightly cooler air that evening. The following day was the real highlight of our visit: St Peters. The weather was baking hot again and we all kept in the shadows as much as possible as we marvelled at the colonnades of the piazza. The scale and magnificence couldn't fail to impress even the most ignorant of our party. After our tour and climb through the angled stairways to the top of the dome, we attended a special Mass in a side chapel, and I noticed that Dr Jeffries took Malcolm to a tiny altar by themselves. "So, how are y'getting on with the gorgeous Alan? Now that you two are on your own." This was Gerald, as we walked down through the shading colonnades. His emphasis was placed on the phrase `on your own'." "How did you know that?" "That you were on your own?" "Yes" "Cos I saw Malcolm coming out of Jeffries' room this morning with his towel. And darling Charles, we all know what happened, don't we?" "No, you most certainly do not!" "Caught wanking, wasn't he!" "As it happens, no he wasn't." "Hmm, we'll have to see about that won't we. Anyway, how are you getting on with Alan?" "Oh, fine! How's Redding and whatsit in your room?" "We swapped. Ray and I are together with young Coleman. We spend most of our nights wanking. Sometimes Ray and I fuck; Paul Coleman watches. He's still virgin. How big did you say Alan's cock was?" "God, Gerry! Can't you ever leave it alone?" "Not me, dear. Tell me all about Alan, and describe your conquest of his pretty bottom in detail." "Shut up! Shut up and fuck off, in that order! Alan made it plain that he's not interested." Alan wasn't just `meat', he was positively lovely; the kind of chap you respect and look up to while still wanting to fuck them. "Well tell me about darling Malcolm. What did you do to him, and tell me why has he been taken into protective custody? Did you wank him off just as Jeffries appeared, or maybe he was shafting you as our beloved deputy head entered the room and cried 'What's all this?' just like in Mary Poppins." "Nothing like that and nothing to do with me – or you Gerry!" "Ooh – get you!" That night, after lights out and as we lay in our beds, I whispered quietly to Alan. "I was sort of hoping that you couldn't sleep again." He turned away from me in the dim. "No. Not tonight. I'm still not sure. It is a sin, y'know" Alan had made me agree to a pact that no matter what, we wouldn't be obvious during the daytime: Alan would remain company with Robinson and Arkley, I would stay close to Gerald and Ray, but increasingly I found myself left to my own company. And I did not enjoy it. The next day was boiling hot once more and we were pleased to be inside as we toured the superb Vatican museum and the Pope's private apartments, and that's when it really happened for me. It was the Raphael paintings, you know the ones – School of Athens and all that in the Stanza Signatura. I was physically shocked by them and had to keep going back to see if I had experienced them correctly. I can't really put into words the affect they had on me. I didn't quite understand them, but they intrigued me and excited to me to the extent that they made my heart beat faster and my stomach churn a bit. I really didn't understand at the time, and even now I'm still not sure I do. Once again, I returned to look at them again. "Well there you are, Charlie! We all thought you'd been abducted an' all. We're waiting for you outside." "Oh! Father, sorry!" I started in surprise as his voice intruded into my thoughts about these bewitching Raphael's. I didn't take my gaze off them even as I replied to Father Brian. "These paintings mean something to you then?" "Oh God yes! Sorry Father, that just slipped out. But just look at them!" "Aye. But what do you see?" "Everything! Look at the colour and these figures here and the way they all flow. Look at the way that cloak drapes and the figure comes out from the plane. Just bloody look!" "Charlie, I agree they're good but it's only paint." "No. It's a lot more than that." "What then?" "Dunno, but it's more than. Just much more. There's action and reverence and deep respect, almost worship. But he's made these `gods' if you like almost approachable on a human level. And yet we can't approach them. Look at that hand there – that one!" I gestured and he looked and grunted. "The hand is extended towards me, but I can never grasp it!" "Yes, yes I think I see what yer on about, Charlie" he whispered. "That's the bridge. The invitation to the perfect. And we can never make it. We are always excluded!" I almost sobbed as I said that last bit. I was suddenly aware that my eyes were brimming with tears, and that Father Brian was observing me with compassion. I blinked and I tried to wipe away the tears that tracked down my cheeks before he noticed. I failed; he had noticed. "I understand, Charles" he responded gently. "That's the difference between this world and the next for me, Charlie. That's the point of this whole business." He meant his religion. I shook my head and looked again at the XXX over the doorway. "Would you describe it as a religious experience then, Charlie?" I winced and wriggled, uncomfortable with the connotations and where they could lead. "No, don't think so. It's being in the presence of something . . . so infinitely important in the whole of history. After all this time; these paintings and their contents are important and the work that Raphael put in. Expressions of values and references to the past and lots of things and – I just don't know!" I floundered about, trying to make sense of the paintings and what they meant to me. I felt rather strange; slightly sick and excited in a weird, non-physical way. There was a sort of transcendental feeling when I looked at them; I sort of understood what Raphael had been on about and almost communicated through to his subjects and communicated with the philosophers. No I didn't; it was just the paintings shocking me. I would need years to work these things out. "Well, I think it's lunchtime Charlie old lad. The others will be starvin'. Let's see what Mr Syles what has to say about this, it's his province after all." And he laid his broad hand upon my shoulder. There was a feeling of protection; guidance; leadership. In retrospect, I think I admired Father Brian beyond any other human being I have known. "Yes. Sorry, Father." And we left. But the arresting and bewildering effect of those paintings stayed with me then and have remained with me ever since. "Father Brian tells me you were rather impressed by the Apartments, eh Charles." This was Dr Jeffries as we had lunch. Lunch was an Italian sandwich of a length of bread with raw ham, cheese, tomatoes and fresh basil leaves together with a drink of orange juice. Actually, it was perfectly adequate and tasted lovely. "Umm. Yes sir." I struggled with a mouthful of bread, trying desperately to swallow. Dr Jeffries laughed out loud and looked at me with twinkling eyes. There was no evil there, Malcolm sat between he and Mr Syles, silent and slightly dependent. "Don't choke Charles! Take your time." "Sorry sir. Yes. I really wasn't expecting that." "But you've seen the Raphael's before. In books, I mean" interjcted Mr Syles. "Yes, but not like that. Real. Like just real and there, all around and so big. And the colours! Alive, bright and impossible!" I couldn't explain. I really couldn't. "And what did you think of La Pieta in the Basilica yesterday?" Asked Mr Syles. I coughed. I really could not reply. La Pieta had more than taken my breath away. I'm not sure if humans have souls. On the whole I think I would prefer that they didn't. But if we do, La Pieta had cut a deep line across my soul. Nothing more to say. After our tour and our mid-afternoon liberation, I ducked into a silly souvenir shop and bought an overpriced sketch pad, some pencils and a couple of other bits and pieces. Signor Bonnaldi was on the desk when I returned hot and tired to the hotel. "Bueno serra, Signor Bonnaldi. Posso avere la mia stanza. Numero cento vente setto. Per favor." "You could say `cento ventisette' or just ask me in English!" I burst out laughing, and Bonnaldi grinned and chuckled at me. It turned out that he had spent several years in the Finchley Road, learning english and working at his uncle's restaurant before taking over the family hotel here in Rome. I knew Finchley Road well as my grandmother had lived there. Most excellent; I was delighted to meet him, really meet him. In the privacy of our shared room 127, I persuaded Alan to model for me in the suffocating warmth of the evening. I took the pillow case from Malcolm's old bed and draped it across Alan's shoulder – it was the closest I could get to a cloak. "Do I have to be nude?" "Yes! Absolutely yes. I need to see how the fabric falls across you." "But I could wear pants, couldn't I?" "No. Get your bloody pants off – and your glasses - and stand there as I told you! I'm not going to draw your cock, as it happens." "Ooh, well alright" he demurred. "No need to be rude, Charles. But I need this drawing stuff to be safe. Y'know - private" And he struck the pose. "Turn to your right a bit . . . stop! Now hold it." I drew disastrously, ripped the page from the sketchbook and started again. This one was crap too and I tore it off and away. "I bought a bottle of this. Here, have a swig!" And I hauled the bottle of Grappa that I had bought in the tourist shop towards him. "Is it strong?" "Probably, yes. Swallow it first and then breathe." I instructed. Alan did so and breathed out successfully. "Goodness, that's strong! You have some too!" I had a sparse sip and passed the bottle back to Alan. He took another mouthful and then spluttered. I waited while he regained his composure. "God, Charlie! That's really strong!" "Not really, but let's make sure no one else knows about it." "'Kay." "Take another swig while I get ready." He did so as I sharpened my pencil again. I started once more, using the two dimensional paper to describe the three dimensional figure before me, this one worked; I had recorded the sweep of the fabric on Alan's shoulders well, but his hips and legs were less successful. I ripped off the page and started gain. Better. That was a better line to describe the cloth over his back and shoulder. But I needed to show the highlight on his left buttock and the way the muscle blended into his thigh. But you can't add highlights onto white paper. Fuck. Exasperated at my own stupidity, I roared and threw the sketch pad aside. "What's the matter? Did I do it wrong?" "No. No, you were fine, I'm just crap." I lapsed away into introspective self-criticism as Alan set the pillow case down and turned towards me. I watched him slide about the room before me as I inwardly seethed at my artistic incompetence. He folded his clothes neatly and brushed his hair while my temper boiled. I watched his beautiful naked body move, turn and twist before me and I began to boil in a different way. He looked at me over his shoulder, the contours of his buttocks highlighted by the lamp and in the shadow, the dark profile of his dangling penis. "It's bed time. I'm going to sleep like this, Charles." He meant naked. It was definitely too hot for anything else, but there was something in the way he said it that made me pay special attention. "Go back to modelling for me. I'd like to watch you move for a few minutes." "What yer mean?" He answered slightly unclearly, and I hoped that a mouthful or two of Grappa might have relaxed his inhibitions and enlivened his sexuality. "Just move for me so that I can see how your muscles and joints articulate." "No!" "Why not? I've just drawn you naked" "Not the same! I won't" and he gathered the pillow case back up to his chest protectively. He didn't realise that his cock protruded beneath, lifting the edge of the cloth deliciously. Pretty boy. He turned away and caught site of himself in the wardrobe mirror and laughed in embarrassment. "I didn't expect that! `Scuse me." Lowering the pillowcase slightly, he clenched his buttocks and looked at me over his shoulder. "Y'know. I wish you still had that key sometimes." "The wardrobe key?" he nodded. "Why?" "Just like to try. Y'know, just try some things out – or try them on, or in!" And he laughed at his own tautology. "They'd look good on you too" I ventured, watching his reaction carefully. He whirled around to me "What do you mean?" "Well, you're slim and good looking, nice body and all that . . ." Deep breath. "Have you ever tried?" "Tried what?" "Anything?" I asked. He shook his head in response. "Only what you did the other night." "Want to try something else?" "Maybe." There was a possibility. There. That's the end of Part One. If you would like to comment or criticise, I would love to read what you think; please email me at nickwyatt42@gmail.com.