NUNC DIMITTIS 1
USUAL DISCLAIMER
"NUNC DIMITTIS" is a gay story, with some parts containing graphic scenes of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so on this is not good for you, it will be better not to read this story. But if you really want, or because YOU don't care, or because you think you really want to read it, please be my welcomed guest.
NUNC DIMITTIS
by Andrej Koymasky © 2019
Witten on May 8th 1985
Translated by the Author
English text kindly revised by Antonio
INTRODUCTION & CHAPTER 1
The doctors have made it perfectly clear: I have two more months to live, if I'm lucky. I've reached the end.
Right now, I have nobody near me, yet I know I'm not alone: life is like that.
Yes, indeed. But what is life?
I have lived... but, but how did I live?
Soon it will be the day of reckoning. Yes, it is time to balance the books.
"Lord, now Thou art letting
Thy servant depart in peace,
according to Thy word,
for my eyes have seen the glory
of Thy salvation."
Nunc dimittis
servum tuum, Domine,
secundum verbum tuum in pace:
Quia viderunt oculi mei
salutare tuum... (Lucas 2: 29,30)
Perhaps I should have said: for my eyes have glimpsed Your salvation... For my eyes have thick, distorting lenses, blackened with smoke, and nothing seems clear to me. I'm old, tired, confused. But serene.
Will I know Your Life, Lord?
Will I enter into Your Kingdom? Will you allow me to reside with You?
>From the depths of my soul springs the overwhelming answer: yes!
But from the depths of my mind a question: are you sure?
Yes with my heart, with my mind... I don't know.
To balance the books on a life could be so easy and yet at the same time terribly difficult.
By writing these lines for myself alone, I will try; perhaps they are just my closing submission to the final court.
CHAPTER ONE
I was born sixty-eight years ago, July 13th 1915, in the beautiful city of Siena, Italy. My father, Cosimo Nike, was a haberdasher. My mother, Valeria Balestra, was a housewife. We were four children, Carlo, Luca, Andrea (that's me), and Lorenza. Luca died in 1920, so there were just three of us left: Carlo, ten, me, five, and Lorenza, two years old.
My family was very religious, though more out of tradition than conviction. We used to all go to Mass together. I remember when I was small, I found it boring: the Latin Mass was all Greek to me.
Mum made me pray and recite the rosary. Dad taught me other prayers: the Act of Faith, the Act of Hope, the Act of Charity, the Act of Contrition... I recited all of them during Mass, two or three times one after the other, huddled in one of those big old church pews smelling of dust and wax. I loved that strange smell, mingled with the smell of incense, and I loved the mysterious warm, dim light of the church, and the tiny flickering flames of the candles.
But, as I said, I was also a little bored.
Carlo took it all very seriously, and followed the service carefully in the Missal; Enza generally slept in Mum's arms.
When it came time for the "Our Father", I recited it in Latin along with the adults; I declaimed it so proudly, even though I'm sure I was mangling it horribly!
I don't have many other memories from that age, apart perhaps some scenes from the Palio festival. But I'm not sure if what I claim to remember isn't in fact something I saw when I was older.
I have one clear memory: I was six years old. One day I entered the church while the priest was giving Holy Communion. I approached the altar rail. When he got to me, the priest seemed to hesitate. He didn't know me and couldn't have known that I hadn't made my First Communion, so, after a brief hesitation, he gave me the Host. I felt as if I was blushing fiercely, partly ashamed for my daring, but partly feeling more grown-up.
I slipped back into a quiet corner of the pews, trying with difficulty to swallow the wafer that seemed glued to my palate and unwilling to be detached. Finally I succeeded: it was completely tasteless. Yet it was the Body of Christ; and at last I had Jesus inside me; I immediately felt like a better person. I prayed after my own fashion:
"Welcome, Jesus. I hope you enjoy being with me. I love you."
I remained there for a while with my face in my hands, like adults did after Communion. Then the priest said: "Ite, Missa est!" and I could stand up and go out. I felt light and happy.
I arrived home late for lunch.
"Where have you been, Andrea?" Dad demanded.
"In church."
"In church?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Good. But next time tell us where you are going. Mum was worried, and so was I!"
"Yes Dad. Sorry."
We sat down at the table. I was about to start eating but I froze: how could I swallow all that food now that I had Jesus inside me? I imagined Jesus all covered in pasta and tomato sauce... how could I do such a thing to Him? So I put my fork down.
"What's the matter?" Mum asked.
"Nothing."
"Well then, eat up."
"I... I can't."
"What?"
"I... I don't feel like eating." I lied.
"Try to. You have to eat." insisted Dad.
"I really don't feel like..." I implored.
Luckily, Mum came to my rescue:
"If the child doesn't feel like eating, don't force him. He can eat later."
But I was hungry, and to stay there like that watching the others eagerly eating was torture.
Thank God, lunch ended and so too did torture. But later in the afternoon I needed to go to the toilet, and I was again beset with problems: but then how did the adults manage? There must have been a secret that I didn't know. That was probably the reason why the First Communion had to be made after a period of special training.
I started silently crying. Carlo noticed, and asked me what the problem was, but I didn't feel I could confide in him. The more my parents insisted, the more I shut myself off in stubborn silence.
I don't remember exactly what happened, but at some point I saw the parish priest and told him everything. He laughed and I felt hurt. But then he explained that I could eat and go to the toilet with a clear conscience, because Jesus was in my heart and not in my tummy. He asked me to wait until my First Communion before receiving Jesus again. I'm not sure if I understood everything he said right away, but I felt reassured and resumed my everyday life without too many problems.
On the other hand, another clear memory dates back to when I was seven.
I had an aunt who lived near the city football stadium, and I liked to go there on Sunday afternoons when there was a match on: from her balcony I had a clear view of the stadium and could enjoy the match from on high in comfort. Once, after the match, I went to the toilet. The window was wide open and I was about to close it when I noticed something: from there it was possible to see into the players' changing room and showers. There were just some long, narrow windows high up along the wall, and they were open because of the hot weather. So, from my vantage point, I could see the players showering, completely naked.
At first I watched them with curiosity, then fascination. When they turned towards the wall with the windows, I could see their well-developed members surrounded by thick, bushy hair. I liked the sight, even if at that time I didn't quite appreciate the reason why. From then on it became quite a ritual for me, Sunday after Sunday, to stand in wait at the toilet window to look at all those beautiful, athletic youths in their glorious nakedness. There wasn't yet anything explicitly sexual in my spying, I was still too much a child. But from that, looking at the older boys, trying to guess what their bodies were like under their clothes, trying to imagine what their genitals were like, became a kind of secret game for me, fascinating and pleasurable.
When I was eight years old I prepared for my First Communion (the official one) and I had to make my first Confession. That was the first time I heard about "impure acts". The sixth Commandment says not to "fornicate". They explained in catechism class that fornication can be any kind of acts, looks or words that deviate from "chastity", and that "chastity is the virtue by which one can avoid the pleasures of the flesh". But what was the "pleasure of the flesh"? Each new word was being explained with more unknown words (to me)!
Now I should explain that in Italian the English words "flesh" and "meat" both translate as "carne". So I assumed the catechism teacher was talking about the "sins of the meat".
I remember concluding that on Fridays we were all chaste, because we didn't eat meat, even if we might have wanted to... But what about all the other days? So, when the day of my first Confession finally came, I said that I indulged in "fornication" every single day of the week. The priest asked me in what way I fornicated, and why. I answered that the fornication wasn't my fault but my mother's, but never on Fridays. In the end, the priest realised my misunderstanding and explained that wasn't the meaning of the words I'd learned. To eat meat and to enjoy it was allowed.
He also explained that the expression "pleasures of the flesh (meat)" meant the pleasure that comes from sex. But for me at that time the word sex meant just being male or female, not having sex. So I took him to mean that if you said or thought "I'm a male and I'm happy about it!" (or "a female" for women), you were a fornicator! I don't know how long I believed that for, but for several years I never again confessed to having violated the sixth Commandment. In actual fact, I was neither pleased nor sorry about being a male: I just was, and that was that.
I first discovered the existence of sexuality when I was nine.
Let me explain: I had a cousin, Adelmo, about eighteen. Once, while I was looking for him in the garden of his villa, and assuming that he was hiding from me as a trick, I crept around furtively, without making any noise, to try and catch him out. That's how I came to find him behind the gazebo: he was kissing a girl. My curiosity aroused, I lay in wait and spied on them. I observed their mounting excitement, the growing passion of their kisses, their increasingly intimate caresses, their undressing little by little... and I saw them, half undressed, unite and make love.
I was more and more curious and stupefied: they both seemed to be experiencing strong and contrasting emotions. Sometimes they seemed to be happy, sometimes unhappy; at times they seemed to be feeling intense pleasure, at times almost pain. I had never heard about such things before, so all this made me very curious, as well as leaving me rather perplexed.
When they were done, straightening their clothes, Adelmo asked the girl: "Did you enjoy it?" and she answered with a sigh: "Yes, it was terrific!" I didn't hear any more, because I crept furtively away. For several days I pondered over what I had seen, and I examined my member several times, asking myself how it worked and what this strange phenomenon could be. Mine sometimes became big and hard too - but I didn't appreciate or understand what it meant. Yes, I was curious; but I didn't think too much about it.
At ten I had my Confirmation. The rite left a strong impression on me. The bishop laid his hands on my head and called the Holy Spirit down on me then he anointed me with sacred unction as a symbol of the abundance of Grace. He gave me a light slap to signify that I must be prepared to suffer for Jesus - and I felt ready, I felt a real soldier of Christ. So I started to pray more intensively and with greater fervour. My godfather presented me with a lovely prayer book that I read devoutly every morning and evening. I went to Mass and to Confession and took Holy Communion often.
But the older I grew, the more I became aware of how easy it was to sin. Once, worried, I said this to my confessor. He answered that indeed it was true: the older you become, the greater the temptations are. At that, I said to him in that case it was better to remain a child! He explained that growing up is just natural and it is foolish and wrong to oppose nature. He also explained that, whilst it may be true that the more you grow, the more temptation you experience, it is also true that your power to resist grows at the same pace, if you love the Lord, because He helps us. So I felt reassured, because I was sure in my love of God.
In that period I paid great attention to how I was growing, to what was happening to me. I had also made an earnest pledge to completely avoid sin, because I wanted to become a worthy person. But it wasn't that easy: it was more fun to play than do my homework, so it was easy to lie... or to be greedy, or to covet other people's things...
Then I prayed and this gave me strength, so I was able to admit a lie to my parents, to keep greediness at bay, to not bully Enza, nor be envious of Carlo...
After the entrance exam at the end of my fifth year in primary school, I enrolled on the first year of the middle school, and I felt very proud wearing my first long trousers.
Being one of the tallest in my class, I was allocated a desk in the back row. They were old, high desks, with the front of one desk forming the back of the seat in front, which was set a little lower, and so on as far as the teacher's desk: to go up to your desk you had quite a climb up the tiers. Near me, over towards the wall, sat thirteen-year-old Marcello, repeating this year for the second time. To my left was a desk with two empty seats, and then another with two other classmates.
One day, during Latin, I became aware that Marcello was making strange movements. I looked over towards him and what I saw left me speechless: he had his trouser fly open, from where emerged his erect member, which he was holding tight in his hand and shaking up and down.
"What are you doing?" I asked him in a whisper, surprised.
"Shut up! Don't stare this way." he hissed.
"OK, but what are you doing?" I insisted, more curious than ever.
"I'm wanking, alright?"
"You're... what?"
"Cut it out, silly. I'll explain to you later."
So I tried to follow the lesson, but from time to time out of the corner of my eye I cast a glance between my mate's legs. After a while I saw him cover himself with his handkerchief and I realised that something was happening... something that reminded me of the expression on Adelmo's face, there behind the gazebo... He put himself back in again and closed his fly. But what had been going on, and why?
The lesson ended, and as soon as our teacher had left the classroom, I asked him:
"Now will you explain to me what you were doing?"
"No, not now. Our mates can hear us."
"So what?"
"It's a secret. I'll tell you another time."
"Have it your own way." I answered.
It might seem strange that an eleven-year-old boy had never heard about such things, but that's the way it was. At home we never talked about sex and up to that point neither my schoolmates, nor Carlo, nor my parents had given me the slightest hint.
At break-time I again asked Marcello for an explanation but he said:
"At home time, come with me and I'll explain everything, OK?"
I could tell from his tone that he wanted to drop it for the moment, so I didn't press him further, though I was really curious and keen to understand what he was doing and why.
So, after school, we set off home as usual. Marcello asked me:
"You mean, you really don't ever wank?"
"No... What's that?"
"What I was doing before in the class room, you know."
"But why? What for?"
"You twit! To have a good time!"
"To have... a good time? But... how?"
"Well, if you shake it up and down it gets hard, and then you feel great and then a kind of white stuff like milk comes out and it feels really good."
"But what's it for?" I insisted.
"It's great and it's fun. Try it and you'll understand."
"If you say so..." I answered, not entirely convinced.
We changed the subject and said goodbye in front of my house. But I kept on thinking about it. Was it really something so great and fun? When I went to the toilet I decided that perhaps it was worth a try. Yes, it was quite enjoyable, but no white stuff came out, nothing... and it was tiring: it wasn't so special, after all.
The day after, waiting to go into school, Marcello asked me:
"So, did you try?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"Nothing special, really."
"That's because you don't know how to do it..."
"I did just like you... but nothing came out, no white milk." I complained.
"Ah, that just means you're not fully developed yet." he retorted with a know-all air.
"Not fully developed? But mine's bigger than yours!" I said, half offended and half proud. He laughed:
"Bullshit. Liar."
"You don't believe me? I'm no liar!" I said, now feeling really insulted.
"Naah! I never believe what I haven't seen. If you show me it, I'll believe you."
"Come to the toilets and I'll show you: I don't tell lies, straight up."
"In the toilets? You crazy or what? If they catch us in there we'll be in real trouble! But... I'd like to check it... Come to the Sorra tomorrow afternoon."
The Sorra is a mountain stream near Siena. Our family sometimes went there for picnics. So the following day I went there with Marcello. Splashing about in the water, our shoes in our hands and our trousers rolled up to the thighs, we reached a tiny island. Hiding in the bushes, we lowered our trousers and pants. Both of us were soft. Then we stroked ourselves till we were hard and compared lengths. Mine really was longer than his, and I was proud. Marcello fingered my dick: I felt a strange and unusual pleasure, much stronger than when I did it to myself.
"Feel mine, how hard it is." invited Marcello.
I touched it: that contact was pleasurable too, I liked it, and after a bit we were masturbating each other. Marcello actually was more mature than me. From that day on I continued to masturbate, sometimes alone, sometimes with Marcello. For me it was a new kind of game, more and more pleasurable. I hadn't yet discovered that what we were doing was considered a sin, although from Marcello's circumspection, and also a little by instinct, I realised it was something you do in secret, something you have to not talk about with others. But having a secret made me feel more grown-up.
At that time I used to sleep in the same room as Carlo, who was sixteen. One night I woke up hearing my brother's bed squeaking rhythmically. Curious, I looked across to him: I saw his silhouette against the faint light coming through the window from the street. He was lying in his bed, stark naked, and was masturbating. This sight excited me so much that I started to masturbate as well, fascinated by the scene taking place before my eyes.
This went on for several nights and it was on one of these occasions that I ejaculated for the first time. It was only a few drops of clear liquid, but my surprise and pride, and the pleasure I felt, were such that I emitted a muffled noise.
Carlo sprang up in his bed and switched on the lamp, looking at me. He caught me uncovered, my member still in my hand, my eyes open wide.
With a fleeting smile, he got off the bed and came towards me. I looked at him bewildered, as he sat on the edge of my bed and said:
"Shit, Andrea. So my little brother has finally grown up too!" and mussed my hair affectionately. Then he asked: "Tell me, have you got hair down there?"
"A bit..." I admitted, still a little ashamed.
"Pull down your pyjamas, let me see..."
"No..."
"Go on!" he insisted.
"No..."
"But why not?"
"I'm ashamed..."
"But I'm naked, see? And I'm not a bit ashamed. There's no need for shame between brothers, is there? I just want to check if you're growing right... strip off, go on!"
Hesitating slightly, I gave in and lowered my pyjama pants. Carlo surveyed my body and said:
"You're still only a kid but you're certainly growing up. Do you cum?"
I knew what he meant and nodded, this time with some pride. Carlo caressed my body and I liked that, then he said: "I haven't cum yet: you're going to help me now, right?" Without waiting for my reply, he grabbed my hand and guided it towards his member. He did have a nice body, more developed than Marcello's, with a little more hair. So I brought Carlo off. I was surprised by the quantity of his emission.
After that, he came into my bed almost every night. Little by little, he also taught me to caress, to kiss, and then to skilfully use my tongue and mouth on him... At first I didn't fancy it much, but then not only did I get used to it, I started to enjoy it too and I used to eagerly await the feeling of Carlo's warm body seeking mine.
But after a few months he stopped coming to my bed. Then I went looking for him, but he refused. I insisted, so he said to me:
"No, cut it out. I don't feel like it. It's a kids' thing. I've got a girlfriend now. And anyway, doing those things is a mortal sin: you must stop it."
I felt like a pillar of salt. If at first I had been disappointed and upset by Carlo's refusal, now I was thrown into confusion at what he had just told me: it was a mortal sin!
But why a mortal sin? Back in my own bed, I couldn't get off to sleep for a long time. What was wrong with it? It was so good! Could good things be sins? Aren't sins ugly things? Unbelievable!
So the next day I went to my confessor to check, and he too said that masturbation was a really serious sin. A sin against the sixth Commandment. I had to cease such practices or I would be damned forever; and what's more, I would damage myself physically as well. I didn't want to sin, of course, so I made a solemn vow to myself to stop this dangerous amusement for good.
For some days everything went smoothly. When Marcello asked me to go with him, guessing what for, I refused firmly. But that night I woke up with an incredible hard-on and masturbated. Then, repenting, the next day I ran to confession; but soon I slipped back.
Sometimes, when I experienced that desire, I used to start to pray and succeeded in controlling my urge. But the longer I managed to control myself, the stronger my desire seemed to grow; it became more and more difficult.
One Sunday afternoon at my aunt's house, I remembered the changing room and showers. So I hid in the toilet, straight after the match, spying from behind the half open window. Again I saw those beautiful, naked males and their members... and that time I noticed two players hanging around in the shower room; when they were alone, they touched one other, they masturbated each other, and then one of them... penetrated the other! So I started to masturbate, dreaming of being with those two beautiful young men, until I climaxed.
But then suddenly, I felt dirty: I had slipped back again! I decided I had to go and confess as soon as possible. But that same night in my fantasy I saw again those two youths enjoying each other; I felt excited all over again and masturbated once more. For several days I continued doing it often, unable to restrain myself, to resist.
When at last I plucked up the courage to go to confession, the priest warned me, saying that I was literally destroying myself with my own hands.
They were very difficult months, spent alternating between surrender and victory, between good intentions and desires that were more and more intense. But I was determined to resist, to win. So I started praying with more intensity and doing severe penances. I had read that the saints used to fast, wear penance chains and pray to overcome temptation. So, under my clothes, I fastened a small chain very tight round my waist; I gave up breakfast, ice-cream, my afternoon snack; I prayed intensely... but again and again I slipped back into my sinful ways.
It was a hard battle, fought day after day, hour after hour for several months. My confessor advised me to take cold baths but instead of calming me down, this seemed only to heighten my arousal and desire. After days of managing not to surrender, not to let my desires win, I would suddenly give in and at times I would masturbate furiously three or four times in a single day. When we went on the annual school outing to Florence, for example, I only had to see the beautiful David in the Piazza della Signoria to feel a strong urge to masturbate.
"I promise to avoid the opportunity to sin..." I promised earnestly in confession. But little by little I realized that everything was an "opportunity to sin ": watching Carlo undress, looking at my mates on the sports field during P.E., seeing pictures of works of art, seeing a young man kissing his girlfriend... and I realized that increasingly I was being aroused by guys more than by girls.
After my first refusals, Marcello didn't press me and stopped talking about the subject. So when he and two other classmates invited me to go to the Sorra swimming, I accepted without suspecting anything.
We were in the water and I was slightly disturbed seeing their three stark naked bodies, when the three of them grabbed me and pulled off my swimming trunks. I tried to fight them, to rebel, but all three of them were on me and I was excited by the contact of their bodies. But still I tried again to fight back. They dragged me to the bank, laughing and touching me, feeling my body until little by little, inevitably, I got a hard-on and I gave in.
In no time at all, the four of us were one great mass of tangled limbs, our nakedness caressed by the warmth of sun. One of the boys, Lino, tried to penetrate me. I didn't want him to, and managed to get away from him. Then he left me alone and tried with the other boy, Ottavio. He let him do it willingly and was penetrated by his friend before my very eyes. Ottavio seemed to enjoy it a lot, just like Adelmo's girlfriend and the players in the showers...
After a while, Ottavio pulled me over to him and went to work on my member with his mouth. I was terribly excited and let him have his way. Marcello moved to my shoulders, caressed my buttocks, and then rimmed me until he felt I was all quivering. At this point he tried to take me and I didn't move away; I wasn't very keen, but I didn't fight him off. When Lino climaxed, I felt the urge to try it with Ottavio, who accepted joyfully. As soon as I entered him, I felt such an intense pleasure that in a few strokes I reached a strong orgasm. I had discovered a new and really very pleasurable way to rejoice.
After that, it only needed one of my three classmates to ask me to penetrate him for me to accept immediately, even if it meant my being penetrated in my turn.
When my confessor heard of my new experience, all Hell broke loose! He said I was depraved. He said that if I wanted salvation I had to stop at all costs. He ordered me never to see those three boys ever again. But they were my classmates: how could I avoid them?
When they asked me to go with them to the stream again, I made an excuse, because it was obvious what they wanted to go there for. But later at home, I locked myself in the toilet and masturbated, thinking about what was happening at that very moment on the banks of the Sorra, and wishing I was with them. Immediately afterwards, I ran to my room and, taking up my prayer-book, tried to ask God's forgiveness.
Could He ever forgive me, given that I wasn't able to change, and given that I kept on promising not to keep doing the same things, and yet slipped back ever more frequently? How long would He be patient with me? I felt such a wicked boy, so guilty, so... dirty!
Desolate, I started to cry.
When I went to confession again, the priest said I had to pray more, that I had to be more trusting in God. I had to take Holy Communion more often...
I made a serious commitment to try.
I started to pray in all my spare time, several times a day. I fastened even tighter the small chain that I had started wearing again round my waist under my clothes. That caused bruises on my skin, so when I was having a bath I had to lock the door, afraid that somebody would notice and ask me the reason for the bruises. But the temptation didn't get any less at all, on the contrary, I was aroused more often than before. Even whilst praying, sometimes, I had incredible hard-ons accompanied by sexual fantasies. And when I was bathing, and studying, and at night, and during the lessons at school, and...
I was in a daze and couldn't even study any more.
All my school-mates held a secret fascination and aroused erotic fantasies in me, especially those in the senior classes. I really was struggling with all my might not to surrender but it was becoming more and more difficult. Sometimes, while masturbating, I managed to stop myself short, but then I would feel strange and upset for hours and hours; often too, I would feel a dull pain in my groin and testicles.
I felt lost. I didn't know what more I could do. I was suffering continuous, profound anguish. At home they were worried by my condition. After a thorough examination by the family doctor, they gave me some tonic.
But my "illness" was not physical, and it seemed as if nothing and nobody could help me get better: neither doctors nor priests.
CONTINUES IN CHAPTER 2
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