Beautiful Boys: Gay Erotic Stories (10 page)
Read Beautiful Boys: Gay Erotic Stories Online
Authors: Richard Labonte (Editor)
“Well,” I mumble, staying calm and collected, trying to allay any suspicion I’m on to him until I’m safely out of the car. When I hesitate, he says he doesn’t want to share me with Yuri. He ends the call abruptly, then tosses the phone aside.
“What did you say to him?” I ask.
“I tell him to find his own American.”
There’s an awkward moment as we arrive at the Savoy. The doorman, a towering, regal Nigerian, seems a bit confused. He’s not accustomed to the guests of this exclusive property arriving in rusty, dented deathtraps. Tony sits quietly, waiting for me to signal whether I’m going to invite or dismiss him. Knowing he’s willing to surrender his car key—and the means for a quick, unobserved escape—makes me comfortable with my decision.
“Can you valet the car?” I ask the doorman.
“Of course, sir.”
Tony’s eyes widen as we step into the cozy lobby. He’s craning his neck, hoping to find Cher or Miss Tina Turner holding court in the bar. What the hell, I decide, he looks more presentable in his tapered black pants and overcoat, a white silk scarf draped around his throat, than I do in my Carolina sports gear. He certainly won’t be conspicuous among the guests having a quiet nightcap before retiring to their beds.
“Shall we have that drink?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” he says, his eyes dropping to his polished shoes. “But I have no money.”
I tell him not to worry. If he’s disappointed by the clientele, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t recognize Madeline Albright, ensconced in a comfortable easy chair and sipping a cup of tea as she nods intently at the bullet-headed commissar who is quietly, but emphatically, making his point.
“Beer, wine or a cocktail?” I ask.
“Oh, prosecco! Please!”
The waiter, fey and obviously gay, smiles and says, “Of course.” I don’t know if he’s more amused by my young companion or by the idea I’m ordering a classic summer wine. Tony attacks the salty nibbles; I ask if he’s eaten. Yes, yes, of course, he says, but he orders a cheeseburger and fries anyway.
“This is so nice, President Clinton,” he laughs, oblivious to my distress that Madame Albright might have overheard his endearment. He’s dragging the last fry through a dollop of ketchup when his phone rings.
“It is Yuri,” he says, looking at the number flashing on the screen.
“Go ahead. Answer,” I say.
I pour myself another glass of prosecco as they chat.
“He is very close,” Tony says, holding the phone away from his face while he waits for my answer. “Just down the street.”
Is the sweet, fizzy wine making me light-headed and obliterating my inhibitions and better judgment?
“Would he like to have a drink?”
Tony smiles and quickly closes the deal. I’ve got an immediate attack of buyer’s remorse. What’s going on with me? I’m about to make an even bigger ass of myself in full view of the former secretary of state.
“Now I am refreshed,” he announces, emptying his glass. “Shall we have a bottle of red wine to warm us?”
Why not? At least Madame Albright won’t be a witness. She and her companion are saying their good nights: thank you God for small kindnesses. This Yuri is likely to be a suspicious character, massive and austere, with a shaved head and scars, on holiday from his job as an enforcer for the Moscow mob—nothing at all like the cheery, cuddly teddy bear, no older than twenty-five, who wanders into the bar wearing a crinkly, crackling warm-up suit.
“Ah, Yuri, here we are,” Tony calls out.
They kiss cheeks, right, then left, and Yuri flops beside me. He pulls off his wooly cap and plunges his stubby fingers into a mop of thick blond curls. He’s a cherub to Tony’s seraphim, with a toothy grin, plump cheeks and a stubborn case of hat-hair.
“You are a mess,” Tony laughs. “Have a drink,” he says, pouring glasses of burgundy and passing a lit cigarette to his friend. They speak as if they are alone, assuming, correctly, I’m not fluent in the language. The mumbled Russian words begin to sound ominous. The bartender stands sentinel, polishing the stemware with a clean white towel. Is the heavy red wine making me paranoid, or does he arch an eyebrow when I catch his eye? Is it a warning? A signal he’s waiting for a sign to help me make my escape?
“Yuri thinks you are very sexy,” Tony informs me, summoning the waiter and ordering another bottle of wine. Yuri confirms by reaching under the table and laying his hand on my crotch.
“Does Yuri speak English?”
“A little,” Yuri answers. “I study in school.”
He takes my hand and places it between his thighs, leaving no question about the healthy size of the swollen bulge in his shell suit.
“I think it would be very nice to kiss you,” he whispers in halting English, nudging my foot with his bright red Adidas. I chuckle, then laugh out loud; Yuri seems puzzled by my unexpected reaction.
“Nothing, it’s nothing,” I say, certain he’s never heard the old Elvis Costello song about angels and red shoes.
The three of us talk quietly, about pop stars and American movies. “Well, shall we?” Tony asks after we finish a third bottle of burgundy. He says Yuri must be up early in the morning. I don’t remember extending an invitation for an overnight visit. As a matter of fact, I’ve never agreed that we will be going upstairs. So why am I following them to the lobby, acquiescent in whatever fate awaits me? The bartender’s voice spins me on my heels.
“Sir, your room number please?”
I’m ready to plead guilty to as yet uncommitted crimes. Is he going to announce house rules—no unregistered guests in the room? Is he about to place a discreet call to hotel security and send them knocking on my door when my pants are around my ankles and my hands are otherwise engaged? But he simply hands me the bill for the food and wine, seeking my signature.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “Sorry.”
“No, sir, that is too generous,” he says when he sees the gratuity I’ve added to the bill, a bribe for his discretion. I’m drunker than I ought to be. I insist he keep it.
“Please, sir, be careful,” he says, touching my hand lightly. The chain mail band tattooed around his wrist is ominous.
“I’m fine,” I say, ungratefully shrugging off his concern. This attack of paranoia is ridiculous, I decide. They’re kids after all, boys from a provincial city, and I’m acting like a foolish American tourist, intimidated by their Iron Curtain accents and imperfect teeth.
Yuri is handing Tony a small, folded foil packet that he slips in his pocket as I approach.
“Ah, here you are at last!” he chirps, sweet and innocent as the bad seed. “It is time for fun!”
Yuri rubs against me in the tiny elevator, trying to mount me standing up. He reeks of tobacco and alcohol; fending off his passion, I wonder when his mouth last saw a toothbrush. I fumble with the key card, and Tony takes it from my hand and slips it into the slot. We stumble into the room, where Yuri strips so quickly I never see him undressing. He’s on his knees, his face buried in my crotch. Tony is preoccupied with the image in the mirror, admiring himself, cocking his chin, assessing his profile, flinging his scarf from shoulder to shoulder.
“Do you think this is the room of Cher?” he asks. My tongue feels too thick to educate him about the pride of celebrities who would never sleep in anything smaller than a suite. “I think it is,” he declares. “I would like very much to be fucked in the bed of Cher.”
Yuri’s body language doesn’t indicate any interest in being fucked. He wrestles me to the bed. His soft baby fat is deceptively powerful, his strength the legacy of his peasant ancestors. He shoves his hand inside my shirt and pulls the hair on my chest. I’m distracted by the musk in his armpits and his dirty feet, but his prodigiously ample pink cock more than compensates for any deficiencies in hygiene.
“Come, Yuri,” Tony beckons and they disappear behind the locked door of the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the bed, hesitant to remove so much as a shoe, and I take the opportunity to shove my wallet deep between the mattress and box spring. Knowing my passport and credit cards are locked in the safe doesn’t relax me. I know I’ve made a huge mistake when I hear a glass shatter on the tile floor. The bathroom door opens and they trip into the bedroom laughing, their long cocks banging against their thighs. They’re coke-jacked, edgy and impatient. Tony frowns, disappointed.
“You are still dressed?”
They stand on either side of me. Four hands unbuckle, unzip, untie my shoes and roll off my socks, strip off my jeans one leg at a time. Yuri laughs when he sees my baggy boxer shirts.
“American!” he announces, amused, his green eyes glassy, the left one slightly crossed.
I want to hand them a thousand
koruna
and call it a night, but it’s too late to stop this runaway train without risking an angry confrontation. Tony drops to his knees and puts my cock in his mouth; the Russian runs his fingers through his friend’s black hair, whispering Slavic endearments in his sweetest voice. Then he pushes Tony away and takes his turn biting and nibbling my shaft as Tony takes my face in both hands and kisses me.
koruna
and call it a night, but it’s too late to stop this runaway train without risking an angry confrontation. Tony drops to his knees and puts my cock in his mouth; the Russian runs his fingers through his friend’s black hair, whispering Slavic endearments in his sweetest voice. Then he pushes Tony away and takes his turn biting and nibbling my shaft as Tony takes my face in both hands and kisses me.
“You sexy, sexy man,” he purrs.
He crawls on the mattress and, steady on his hands and knees, tells me to spread his asscheeks. The tiny warts on his shaven pucker are oddly arousing; a faint whiff of the latex and lubricant lingers from the bathhouse.
“Now you will fuck me a long time,” he says, slurring his words.
Only after I’m deep inside him do I realize I’m not wearing a condom, worry abandoned as I yield to Yuri’s stubby fingers, first one, then two, probing my ass, loosening me enough to let him shove his enormous cock into my rectum without protest or resistance. It’s been ages, years actually, since anyone has penetrated me, and Yuri is rough and insistent. He pushes Tony aside and flips me on my back. He orders Tony to pin my wrists to the mattress and grabs my ankles, hoisting my feet onto his shoulders. He’s grunting like a wild beast, sweat pouring off his red face as he grinds his pelvis against the flesh of my buttocks, frustrated by his waning erection, the consequence of a nose full of coke. I know better than to agitate him any further and don’t struggle while he tries stuffing his thick but limp penis into my ass. Tony strokes my face and, just before he plunges his tongue into my throat, his sweet voice assures me that I am, indeed, a sexy, sexy man. My cock grows hard as it’s ever been and, not needing a hand or a mouth to bring me to the edge, I shoot farther than a man my age has any right to expect, splattering my semen over both of our faces.
I’m yanked from a dead stupor by a firm grip on my ankle, shaking my leg.
“Wake up, Mister Sleepyhead.”
A simple hangover can’t begin to describe the aftershocks rippling through my tannin-soaked brain. My muscles resist my feeble effort to haul myself off the mattress and confront the bright sunshine pouring through the window.
“You snore very much, all night,” Tony laughs. He’s standing over me fully dressed, his overcoat buttoned and his scarf knotted at his throat.
“Where is Yuri?” I ask as the dim memory of last night emerges from the thick fog of alcohol. I panic, imagining stolen cash and cards, then remember my wallet is safely tucked beneath the mattress.
“Oh, Yuri is gone to work many hours ago. He is a breakfast server at the Intercontinental. Not as nice as the Savoy,” he sneers.
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