Best Gay Erotica 2001, page 18
“Oh, William, you don’t understand!” he said, collapsing into a gilded armchair and bringing his hands to his face, which was smooth as marble, the pale clear skin sloping down to his forest-thick beard. This guy was studsville!
“My music is dying!” He banged one hand on the table, the torchère swayed. “It’s slipping from my grasp, and I don’t know why! It must be caused by physical desire puling me about and destroying my concentration!”
“Who says your music’s gotten lousy? I couldn’t hear your last symphony without wanting to put my hand between my legs.”
“It’s...” He closed his eyes. “Romeo and Juliet. Balakirev says it should be ready now. But I’m stuck. Stuck!” Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “At the culminating moment where the contrasting subject must resolve into the main theme, the progression goes B-minor dominant, tonic, then…then what?! I can’t resolve it. Everything I try sounds Russian, when it’s an Italian story. The problem eats at my brain. I read the play daily for inspiration—some clue, some way to instinctively inhabit the story—but I fail!”
“I’m an Englishman,” I said, unbuttoning my fly. “Doesn’t that give me an intuitive understanding of Shakespeare?”
He looked at me for a minute. “Maybe it does.” He turned and placed his fist against his mouth. “Yes, I think it might.”
“As for Italy,” I said, peeling off my trousers and removing my collar, “I’m a hairy little fucker; my grandma’s from the Veneto, a direct descendant of the fair Veronans.”
He turned to me, eyes widening. “God,” he cried, “maybe… maybe!” He stared at me, and suddenly his pupils dilated, he tore off his waistcoat, cravat, shirt, and pants, and when he threw me naked on the bed, I cried out, “Oh, Petie, play me like a piano, make my body a symphony, you raunchy horndog.”
His prickly beard drove into my stomach as he began to hum and sing the opening of Romeo and Juliet. He mimicked the hypnotic chant of the violas, the throaty wail of the cellos, the furtive plink of plucked strings. His vibrating lips skidded over my chest, as sound, hot breath, and saliva exploded onto my skin. His sticky tongue lapped at my nipples; I smelled tobacco, hair oil.
“Yes, Petie, yes.”
Then his great chest fell onto mine and the main theme kicked in. Tchaikovsky sang away as the string section propelled the melody skyward. It fell in dizzying drops, spun in ever-widening loops. His hands made a vise and my groin burned inside it.
“Yes, itch me, Ilyich, itch me!”
Above my face, his mouth twisted and puckered, his tongue plucked lips, breath squealed through his nostrils, his hand beat at the bed frame, castanets clattered in his throat, and his entire body shook when he cried out a trumpet blast.
I gasped, my breath racing, the insane thudding of the contrabass, cymbal-crashes like lightning, a deafening hammer-blow as the tuba-roar filled the room.
A thousand pianists’ fingers pressed on my every pore.
Then as the strings trembled on F-sharp, I felt him holding, holding me in such suspense, it was agony.
Suddenly he flipped me over and the tempo raced, violins screamed, kettledrums pounded, Tchaikovsky’s spit splattered over my back, shoulders, hair. I saw him in the gilt bronze looking glass, eyes blazing, his right hand on my hip, the other whipping furiously in the air, the entire orchestra surging up and up to the cliff-edge of the highest precipice, and then...
He stopped.
“I can’t do it,” he cried.
“Yes, you can,” I screamed.
“No, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
He paused, then thrust forward a final time with his hips, singing out the notes A, F, and D. A D-minor chord! What a surprising transition! Never heard before in the history of music!
We both cried out at the top of our lungs.
Then we fell to the bed and did a dying fugue of moans and signs.
I said, “You fucking know how, you feisty sleazebag.”
Tchaikovsky began to bounce up and down, singing, “F, D-minor!” over and over.
He threw a blanket in the air and as it drifted down to cover us, he started kissing me, singing “F D! F, D! F, D!”
I sat in the Moscow Hall at the opening of Romeo and Juliet. Violin bows slashed the air, the conductor’s body thrashed like a fish on a hook, and as the piece approached its summit—I couldn’t help it—my head fell back, my eyeballs rolled up, and I yelled out “F D! F, D! F, D! F, D!”
The Hittite Slave
Larry Townsend
Some men, regardless of their status at birth, are literally born to be slaves. This is an emotional condition that has existed through all the ages of mankind, although recently recognized only by some of our more enlightened researchers. In the Bronze Age cultures of ancient Egypt and her contemporary civilizations, when one man could own another, it was generally the status of a one’s family that determined his place in this hierarchy of Masters and slaves. Our setting is Palestine, during a time of conflict between the Hittite Empire and the forces of Pharaoh. Our narrator, a young Hittite officer, is about to be assigned by his commanding general as noble hostage to the Egyptians, in an exchange that is intendedsupposed to guarantee adherence to a newly signed treaty.
On the evening before the final day, when a treaty would be signed to bind both sides, Anittas called me to his tent. With a peculiar display of kindness and fatherly solicitude, the general ordered his servant to bring me a bowl of wine. He then spoke at some length about the need to convince the Egyptians of our sincerity and desire for a peaceful solution to both the border and trade disputes. One way to do this, he continued, was to impress the other side with the number of noble personages within our delegation; the higher the ranks of the negotiators, the more certain the Egyptians would be of our concern.
I should have been suspicious, but I was so surprised and flattered by his sudden attention that I simply sat on the a camp stool, nodding at everything he told me. Thus, when he concluded by asserting the need for me to wear golden armor during the final ceremonies the next day, and to be introduced as a young man of princely status, I did not question him. There were several such men in our group, including Anittas, himself, and there certainly should have been no need for me to bolster their ranks. Yet I did not doubt my General’s judgment. When he presented me with the costume I was to wear the following morning, I could only smile and stammer in gratitude for the honor he was bestowing upon me. Even his final remark—to the effect of my being a devoted servant of the Eemperor, willing to make any sacrifice in his name—failed to shake my feeling of pride and gratitude.
And so it happened that I stood among the ranks of noble officers, gilded like a sacrificial beast—and just as stupidly, for I had no idea of my fate until the ceremonies concluded with an exchange of hostages. Anittas selected a younger kinsman of his Egyptian counterpart-part, whereas Menna—barely able to stifle his grin of triumph—pointed his finger at me! When the assembly dispersed, I went with the Egyptians, after Anittas made a great show of bidding me farewell. Although I cursed the role into which fate had cast me, I must admit that my first few days with Pharaoh’s soldiers were not particularly unpleasant. I was treated well, and was included among the other foreign nobles who attended Menna.
We were traveling southwest, toward Byblos, which was now firmly in Egyptian hands. The Syrian countryside was not greatlyvery different from ours, although it seemed to be a little more heavily populated. This made it possible to stop at night in an inhabited area, instead of camping on the desert sands. Menna, while maintaining a very proper aloofness, was always acted cordially in his manner toward me, inquiring after my well-being several times. Only his eyes betrayed the interest he really truly harbored, and I was fairly certain that once we reached our destination he would make some move to consummate his desires. I was not wholly displeased by this prospect, for I found him intriguing. Nor did this undercurrent go unnoticed by his subordinates, which probably accounted for their courtesy during this initial period of our association.
Thus, in less than a week, I had become reasonably comfortable in my new surroundings, and had begun to anticipate an easier future than I had at first envisioned. It therefore came as a terrible shock when, on the seventh night, I was suddenly awakened by a troop of Egyptian soldiers. I was hauled roughly from my bed and thrown face down on the floor. My hands were bound behind me by several wrappings of leather thongs, and my arms were fastened to my sides with chains. I had been naked beneath my blankets, and was left in this humiliating condition when the soldiers dragged me into the large farmhouse where Menna had been sleeping.
The entire staff of officers was assembled about their viceroy, all dressed in full battle gear, aswhen I was dragged before them and pitched onto my knees in their midst. Before I could speak to question the reason for this outrage, Menna stepped forward and struck my chest with his foot. The force sent me tumbling backward, and I had to struggle to assume a semi-erect posture, leaning on my side.
“As I am sure you already know,” he said harshly, speaking my native Nesite with a heavy accent, “the Hittite armies crossed into Syria early this morning. The treaty has been broken, and by right of law your life is forfeit.”
My face must have reflected my horror and disbelief, because Menna stopped his tirade and stared at me, his eyes moving slowly down the length of my body, pausing several times at my groin where my genitals lay exposed and unprotected. Without my willing them, tears came to my eyes as I protested my innocence in any conspiracy, and this must have convinced the Egyptian viceroy of my sincerity. He spared my life, but I no longer had the status of a hostage. I was now a slave—his his slave—and he ordered me transported to Byblos while he ledlead his own forces northward.
Still naked and bound in chains, I was placed in a wheeled, wooden cage used to haul livestock, and carried to the viceroy’s house on the coast. At that time I spoke only my native Nesite, and therefore had no way to communicate with the men who guarded me. I was completely alone, bitter in my knowledge that Anittas must have planned the entire treachery before ever arranging for me to be the Hittite hostage. Aware of the inevitable results, he had asensured that no actual prince would be sacrificed.
I wondered whether the planning had gone back even further, whether Utmisch had suggested I be used, whether he had told his friend the reason for wishing me placed into Egyptian captivity.
Although I had no way to know it at the time, Anittas’s plot was doomed to failure. King Tushratta of the Mittani promptly allied himself with the Egyptians, and between them they drove our Hittite forces back into the mountains. The emperor counterattacked with sufficient power to save Carchemish, however, and eventually a second, more important treaty was signed by Anittas.
But all of this took many months, during which I was lodged in a cell beneath the viceroy’s house in Byblos. Menna must have given very detailed orders regarding my treatment, because I was well fed and forced to exercise every day. I was kept in rags, but they were fairly clean. I was required to bathe regularly, and a servant was sent to instruct me in the Egyptian language. Although Menna spoke enough of our tongue to make himself understood, I now began to wonder exactly what plans he had for me upon his return. I was definitely being too well cared for. Nor should there have been any need for me to learn the intricacies of their language if I was to be no more than a caged captive.
Some orders must also have been given regarding any physical abuse of my body, for the several pairs of guards were all careful never to actually lay hands on me in a sexual way. Some of them did display more than a casual interest in my nakedness, however, and as the weeks passed and I learned more of their language, I came to realize that they were making jokes about my unmutilated manhood. All of them had undergone a ritual called “circumcision,” which deprived them of their foreskins. They actually seemed proud of their condition, and during exercise periods, or when I was being transported between my cell and the baths, I was sometimes required to watch when they urinated against the wall of the house or in the alley behind it. Having little else to occupy my mind, I quickly gained a reasonable fluency in their language. At about this time Menna had agreed to the establishment of a new treaty, and the exigencies of command had lessened sufficiently to permit his communicating with his household. A messenger arrived from him one day, and immediately afterward I was placed in heavy metal fetters by my guards. I was to be made like them, they told me, and it required several moments’ thought before I realized what they meant.
By then it was too late. My struggles were in vain, for the thick circlets of bronze pinioned my wrists together behind my back, and a set of chains restricted the movement of my legs. I was hustled upstairs, where an Egyptian physician awaited me. The soldiers placed me on my back atop a leather-covered couch, and the chains were struck from my ankles. My legs were then repositioned to keep them spread as wide as possible, secured to supports at the base of my couch. A cord was tied about my neck and fastened to the head of the slab, this to prevent my sitting up. In an apparent act of kindness, the senior guardsman ordered my wrists freed from behind me and repositioned at the sides of the couch. It required two men on each arm to accomplish this.
I was terribly frightened, and furious. I did not wish my man-manhood to be altered, and I knew the operation was going to be extremely painful. The physician, a young man whose body had been completely shaved, and who wore only the light -blue kilt and headdress of his profession, dismissed the soldiers and stood at the foot of the table, gazing down at my naked body with the trace of a smile on his features.
“I am going to be kind to you,” he said softly. “A youth of your age is easily aroused, and after the operation an erection will be painful for you until the wounds have healed. I would like to spare you as much misery as possible.” With that, he placed his lips about my penis, and began to manipulate me in a way that only a Babylonian whore might have been expected to do. I was stunned to silence, but before my anger could drive me to shout at him, the pleasurable sensations made me collapse backward in my bonds. My shaft rose hard and seeking into the warm moisture of his demanding mouth, and I was helpless to do more than groan in ecstasy as his tongue and lips worked upon my flesh.
I climaxed once, and might have grown soft had he not retained his grasp, swallowed my seed, and continued to suck me deeply into him. He kept this up until I had released my sperm a second and a third time, the final discharge being almost painful as my aching testicles gave up their fluids and my sweat-covered body collapsed in near exhaustion. He continued to work upon my unresponding organ until the helpless flaccidity convinced him I was fully drained. Only then did he reluctantly release his hold.
“Now,” he said, “it will be much easier for you.” He carried a small table to the side of my couch, and from this he took several instruments. I begged him to spare me, but he shook his head. “Your master has commanded it,” he said simply. He held a wooden bowl to my lips. “Drink this,” he said, “it will ease the pain.” Foolishly, in my seething rage, I smacked the vessel aside with a snap of my head and thus was condemned to feel this most terrible agony without any narcotic.
He seized my penis once again. Staring down the length of my gleaming, naked body, I could see him draw the foreskin outward and set several clamps to hold it away from the shaft. This hurt me, and I fought against my bonds. “Lie still,” he said sternly. “You will only increase the pain.” And so I had no choice but to lie there while the terrible bolts of agony shot through my entire body.
His sharp copper knife was run around the base of my crown; searing waves of pain engulfed me. I screamed at the frightful sensation, growing angrier with the realization of the finality of his actions. I would forever be without this badge of masculine power. I would be a shorn sheep, like the Egyptians whom I now hated with a passion to exceeding anything I had ever felt for Anittas or my treacherous cousin. I could see the blood thatwhich covered his hands, and watched the specks of crimson begin to form a pool about the base of my sex, oozing upward toward my navel.
When he finished, he bound the wound in white linen, having stitched the skin in several places, exactly like a woman sewing a piece of cloth. I cannot describe the fiery pain that now engulfed me. It was worse, by far, than the beating my cousin had given me—worse than anything I had ever imagined. And, more, I knew that my foreskin was forever gone, and within my own mind I was not unlike the castrated catamites who giggled and simpered about my cousin’s harem.
I was allowed to remain on the couch until shadows of darkness obscured the windows of the room. Then some guards returned and released my feet. My arms were rebound behind me before they guided me back to my cell, one of them gently holding my genitals to prevent their being buffeted by the motion of my legs. Even this indignity I accepted as a blessed relief from the throbbing misery I had felt when I first stood up.
After this, I lay on my cot, hardly able to rise for several days. The physician came several times to inspect his work, always with a guard at his back to asensure that I did not attack him. But I was too depleted for this, and even when the wound had healed enough to cause me little pain I was still too embarrassed to do more than lie and stare at the ceiling, plotting the revenge I would have on all of them. Except when I needed to urinate, I could not bring myself to so much as touch my mutilated penis. Only once during all this time, in a terrible, frightening nightmare, did I relieve the terrible pressure in my loins. And even this caused me grievous waves of guilt.
Menna returned with his army, and took up residence in his house. I knew this, for I could overhear the guards speaking outside my cell. Because I had entered into a phase of madness, no one came near me except to poke food through the door. Even this was always done by a servant, with at least four guards in attendance. The physician had ordered me freed from my bonds when the wounds on my penis were healed, and after that I had tried to attack anyone who approached. I do not know how much time had passed, but I was now healed to a point where the marks of the surgeon had receded to a narrow red welt that looked as if it would mark my sex forever.
