"I'm Kirk," you say to the Italian stud who is sniffing around at you in the Portofino gay bar.
"Kirk. That an American name? You're an American tourist just passing through?" asks the second Italian stud saddling up to your other side. "I'm Matteo; he's Luigi," stud two says, establishing that he's with the guy on your other side, the guy who had had his hand on your hip but has now slid it to your buttocks. He's testing to see if you'll let him leave it there. You do.
You give a little shudder, which no doubt Matteo and Luigi both can feel. This has been easier than you thought when you came out of your vacation flat just up the cobblestoned street from this bar and the Portofino yacht basin. As you try to do in your bookings, you have found a quite adequate five-story gay-friendly short-term rental hotel of small flats, two per floor, located on a narrow street with a view down to the harbor.
The old, gnarled man managing the building--you have no idea what his position is called in Italian, and who ogles you longingly, has been a wealth of information on where a gay guy should go and do in Portofino. That's how you've so easily found this gay bar. It's also why you were quick to beg off seeing in the inside of the man's own flat. That obviously is one of the gay stops the man thinks you should make while in Portofino.
"No, I'm Canadian," you lie, for no particular reason other than to maintain a distance until you've decided not to. Both of these men are hunks: dark, with good body definition and smiles. Foxy looking. They could be brothers, but one of them a bit of a thug the other maybe too much of a Loverboy type. The thuggish one has tattooing, including a colorful left-arm sleeve. The other, Matteo has none showing. But you never know. Tatting is fine with you. It could be a turn-on, and you've come down the street to this bar to be turned on--within limits.
"But, yes, I'm a tourist just doing the rounds of coastal Italian harbor towns." No need to admit you're on museum business as well. That may lead to time wasted on irrelevant questions. The mission here is cock in hole.
"And you've landed in Portofino for a couple of nights?" Matteo says. "You know you're gorgeous, don't you?"
Yes, you did know that. Gorgeous as in more than a bit androgenous. You made it through college modeling for the sexy men's clothing ads by Calvin Klein and others. You are small and perfectly formed, with curly hair descending to your shoulders when you let it down, and you can go either way in appearance you wish to.
You have counted on your androgenous looks to gain casual sex--but no lasting intimacy. You are all about immediacy and a certain separation. You crave being covered close, mined deep, but without any attachments. It's why you take work vacations like this from your job, at twenty-eight, as a museum curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. You can combine art research, museum hops, and artifact swap deals while taking in interesting European towns in two- and three-night chunks--and to take in the men of these towns in the same casual, two- and three-night chunks. Quick trips from bar to bed and gone the next day.
So, tonight, in Portofino, you will be a Canadian name Kirk--a twenty-five-year-old med student at McGill, just bumming around the coast of Italy. The only thing you'll have in common with the American real you is a craving for casual, one-time cock.
At the moment, Matteo or Luigi--or both, you're not shy about being shared by two--seem to fit the bill. You've come out in the evening with the hope of finding what you, perhaps, have found.
"Can we buy you another drink?" Luigi asks, coming in close on your right and pulling an arm around your shoulder. His arm is muscular, there's a sparkle of conquest in his eye. He assumes he can have you. He smells of musk. You feel yourself stirring below and wondering if, under those jeans and tight polo shirt just how tatted Luigi is and if he's hung. Yes, he can have you--within limits.
"Sure," you answer. "Another drink would be great."
On your other side, Matteo squeezes your buttocks and whispers in your ear, "Luigi and I are tops. We've never tried a Canadian bottom. Maybe--"
"Possibly so," you answer, turning your face toward him and finding his lips move in. You let them, and, during the kiss when his tongue presses in, you open to him and shudder and give a little sigh. The tip of the tongue darts in and out. You know what is being simulated. He's declaring you wants to fuck you and you aren't backing away.
Well, OK, Matteo can have you too.
He holds you tighter. Luigi, on the other side, is holding you tight as well, and he is unbuttoning the two top buttons of your sports shirt with a hand, which moves below the material, with a thumb and forefinger finding one of your nipples and rolling it. You give a little moan and tremble. But you hold steady.
Are they going to do it right here, at the bar, you wonder. Is this the way in Portofino gay bars?
But it isn't. They are just gauging the extent of your submissiveness and evidently are delighted with what they've found. You can feel them relax. That doesn't mean they loosen their hold on you, though. The drinks have arrived and suddenly are taking priority. You have no idea what's in the drink they've gotten for you. You just know that it's strong and heady.
The Italian studs laugh and turn toward the bar, speaking now to the bartender, who apparently is a friend. They haven't lost interest in you, though. It's you and the "will you or won't you?" they seem to be discussing with the bartender. You hear the word "doppio" spoken, which you think means doubles. They both maintain contact with their hands and Luigi has taken the hand you aren't lifting your glass with and has moved it to his crotch.
Yes, he's hung. And in erection. You don't take your hand away. You rub and he squirms a bit.
They are hitting your sweet spot in being intimate with you at the bar while seeming holding themselves aloft in giving their attention to the bartender. This allows you to touch Luigi and nuzzle your face into Matteo's throat while holding yourself somewhat into yourself as well.
Their hold on you slackens a bit, and, having finished your drink, you move back from them. Matteo and Luigi continue expressively yammering with the bartender, engaging their now-free hands and arms as you've noticed Italians tend to do. You back away and move toward the exit from the bar.
Will they forget you? will they follow you? Do you even know what you want them to do? Where is that sweet spot of giving it--but not to the extent of losing it all? How much to lose and still preserve the essence of you? You take that "you" very seriously.
* * * *
The street is steep and the cobblestone uneven, so you don't have an opportunity to look back down toward the bar and harbor until you come to a slightly concave drainage band of concrete crossing the street by an ancient marble horse trough. You touch the edge of the trough to steady yourself and turn to look down the street. Yes, they are there, Luigi and Matteo, slowly ascending the street, their eyes on you rather than their footing. This is their turf. They don't have to watch their footing. You are on their turf.
At the door of the hotel flats, you pause and turn to look down the street again, making sure they know what building you've gone into. But of course they would know.
You climb the five flights and go into your flat, leaving the door to the landing open. It looks more sparsely furnished now than when you left it. It was clean but nothing fancy. Where to do this?
They make noise on the stairs, talking to each other, laughing and making jokes. The little old man on the first floor no doubt has told them what floor you're on. The studs aren't being shy or quiet.
Still, you hear the intake of breath when they've mounted the five flights and entered through the open door. You have pulled a padded bench ottoman out to the center of the room and are posed on it on all fours, facing the wall opposite the entry door, bare ass waving in the air toward them. You have stripped down to a hole-exposing red silk jock strap. It's what you've worn underneath to go to the bar, not knowing where and when you would see experience action.
You have let your golden curly hair with the reddish highlights down to cascade to your shoulders. You can be anything they fancy now.
Whispers, the closing of the door to the flat, and the rustle of clothes being removed. Then you feel one of them behind you, running his hands over your back and thighs and buttocks--around to your belly and up to your chest. He is standing over you, legs on either side of the ottoman. His feet come up onto the ottoman, and he is hovering over you like a jockey on a horse, poised high in the stirrups. When he turns your head to the side and takes your lips with his, you see that it is Matteo. You kiss, opening your lips to his tongue again, faster than you had done in the bar. The kiss is deeper. He cups your chin with one hand and your belly with the other. He has you fully under his control, the athleticism of him permitting him to hold himself above you. Another pair of hands is back there, gliding over your body and squeezing, separating, and lightly slapping your buttocks.
Luigi is kneeling behind you. You feel the wetness of his tongue lathering and invading your hole, exposed by the jockstrap. You writhe under Matteo's embrace and Luigi's tonguing and begin to pant.
Matteo pulls away from the kiss long enough in intone in a lust-laced voice, "
