This work of historical fiction is entirely fiction and is not intended to imply or presume anything about the sexualities of either President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill or former Soviet leader Josef Stalin. It is highly unlikely that anything of this sort occurred at either the Yalta or Cairo Conferences during World War II.
IF NOT FOR CAIRO
Franklin didn't hear the hinges creak. The tortured sound of the opening door resonated through the room, but failed to register with the president's perceptions. Roosevelt was conscious only by technicality; a combination of exhaustion and inebriation had temporarily reduced his mental faculties to a dim shadow of their potential. The footfalls echoing on the stone floor also fell outside his notice.
The stout intruder peered around the now open door and took stock the situation. "Heavens, Franklin. It appears the stress of this conference has finally reached its breaking point for you," he said with a wry smile on his face - almost as though he didn't have faith in his words. The wheel-chair bound president sat slumped over and motionless by the window, a shattered wine glass lie by his side - no doubt lost when the deleterious effects of its contents began to take hold.
The larger man' patent leather shoes rapped against the solid stone floor of the former Tsar's palace as he arrived at the ailing statesman's side. "Franklin dear, this just won't do. You can't be expected to right the Nazi's wrongs without a good night's sleep."
With that chastisement, the man bent over, lifted President Roosevelt from his wheelchair and carried him to the bed, the president's polio-withered legs still protected from the chill with a thick woolen blanket.
Franklin roused somewhat as he was lain on his down pillow. "Winston?" he said is a harsh whisper.
"Yes, my dear, it is I."
The British Prime Minister leaned in to kiss the president's forehead as slivers of moonlight reflected off his ample crown. He sat down on the bed and places his hand under the blanket and began to stroke the president's polio-ravaged legs.
"Now Franklin, why would you go and take to the bottle like that? You've been through difficult times before - I can't believe this conference alone drove you to it."
Roosevelt's eyes shot open.
"I think you know... exactly what... has me afflicted, Winston. It's you... the memories of Iran... that first time."
"I'm gratified you remember, though I suspected you would try to block it out."
Lucidity and determination returned to the president's gaze.
"How can you be so goddamned cavalier about what happened? You raped me, Winston. The wine was to help me forget."
"That's a terrible way to put it, isn't it? Franklin, dear, you were ill and unhappy. My only intentions were to bring you a little joy and light during our brief desert exile." With his words, Churchill's hand snaked upward from Roosevelt's weak calves to his inner thigh. He felt beads of sweat forming on the president's leg as his hand continued its journey north. "And from your 'unconscious' moans, I think you were having just as good a time as I was."
His hand found its mark; he clamped down on the president's tense erection - one extremity the polio had definitely failed to weaken - and began a rough massage.
The president cooed, his face a mixture of wrath and ecstasy.
"I don't pretend to know everything, Franklin, but I know you enjoy this. Not just the act, but also my performing it. I know that, despite yourself, you love the soft touch of my hand on your nipples, my plump lips on your neck. And yes, you even enjoy the buggery."
Churchill stood and walked to the window. It was obviously February in Livadia; the trees in the courtyard were devoid of green and a light frost had settled in on the bare soil. He and Roosevelt had come to the Yalta Conference to decide the fate of Europe now that the Nazi War Machine had been ground to a halt. Stalin was proving to be a difficult ally now that the Soviet Union's Eastern Front was secure. Initially he had been intractable in his demands regarding Poland, but Churchill felt he and the president had sufficiently worn down the Soviet premier's resolve. Though he would do so grudgingly, the prime minister was confident Stalin would ultimately cede his claim on the troubled nation.
As he stared outside, Churchill caught his reflection in the window. He and Franklin had certainly aged since their first - and completely innocent - meeting in 1918. But it seemed to him that perhaps they had aged even more just in the last two years.
"Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown indeed."
Unlike King Henry, Churchill observed, Roosevelt faced not an army of rebels allied against him, but his own declining health, his apprehensions about the conference and, lately, questions of his own sexuality - difficult triumvirate for anyone to surmount. Despite his weathering, Franklin bore it well, Winston thought. His eyes still held the youthful fire they did when he was but the Secretary of the Navy - adamant against arms reduction after The Great War.
Franklin's eyes were what first attracted Winston -- their determination, their purpose. He was a man who knew what he desired and took it - Winston was determined to resurrect that man.
He returned to the bed after removing his removing his tie and looked lovingly into the president's eye.
"Tell me what you want, Franklin."
"It's not as simple as that."
"Why not? I know you're aroused..."
"No..."
"Whisper all the denials you want. You're following your cousin's advice all to well - though you speak softly, you're carrying a decidedly big stick; and it tells a far more exciting story than your limp tale of disinterest."
"It's not disinterest, dammit! I need to stay focused on the Pacific and the remainder of this conference! I can't afford to give in to the whims of my heart... and other things..."
"A whim? I see. That's all I am to you, then is it?"
"No, no, not at all... It's just..."
Winston brought his index finger up to Franklin's lips, beckoning him to silence. "I know what you mean. I was only having a laugh, dear." Winston leaned ever closer to Franklin's face and soon exchanged his finger with his lips. The president enthusiastically assented.
I'd love some feedback on this if anyone were so inclined. Depending on the reception to this part, I'd like to continue this tale. arminass@gmail.com