Venezia

In the following story, all of the characters are totally fictive and the setting is real. For whomever it would be illegal, immoral or prohibited for any other reason whatsoever to read a story about love between two young men is kindly requested to refrain from continuing. A free picture album illustrating this story (pdf) is available upon request at maringiustinian@laposte.net. Please remember to help Nifty stay online by sending your contribution. This being said, I hope you enjoy the tale.

VENEZIA

by Marin Giustinian

Venice, Italy, 2017.

In the mid-sixties, the former American consulate, Casa Artom, a palatial town house on the Grand Canal of Venice, was bought by Wake Forest University, Winston-Salem, North Carolina, thus giving their students the possibility to study during a semester abroad.

Brent Fleming came from Morehead City, North Carolina. He graduated with a Bachelor's in English from Wake Forest. During his senior year, in 2008, he spent a semester in Casa Artom. Ten years later, he was a young successful writer and photographer. His books and screen plays sold well enough to provide him the ownership of a house in Raleigh and a nice Tesla roadster. Also, his royalties didn't seem to diminish over the months.

He was engaged to a very sweet high school teacher, Dorothy Perdue, with whom he had been living off and on for the past three years. However things didn't turn out the way they should... or did they?

Dorothy had always been jealous of Brent's devouring passion for writing, but when he began to have erectile failures with her, she slammed the door, saying he could simply go to hell.

Brent didn't know if he was relieved or appalled. At any rate, his motto was, 'Radical complications deserve radical solutions!'

He asked his editor in Richmond to give him an advance for his next project, a historical fiction taking place in Venice. He wanted to return to work on the book there anyhow, and didn't know what to do with Dorothy. His editor understood Brent's motivations and credited him with a comfortable sum. Thus, he began planning his escape to Venice, letting Dorothy's "Great America Again" go to pot and her with it.

He found the phone number of Casa Artom on the internet, crossed his fingers and called.

"Hello, I'm Brent Fleming, a former Wake Forest student having lived in Casa Artom in 2009. Could I speak with Mrs. Cechetti, if she still works there?"

Mrs. Cechetti was in charge of the students' housing when Brent boarded there. She helped them a lot to adapt to Venice.

"Yes, she is still with us. Could you repeat your name, please."

"Brent Fleming."

"Hold on. I'll try to put you through."

"Hello Brent! How are you?"

"Oh! Hello Mrs. Cechetti! I'm so glad to talk with you... I'm fine! Guess what, I'm coming back to Venice."

She pretended to know who he was -- Venetian politeness.

"Well, good for you! What can I do for you?"

"I need to find a recommendable rental agency for a stay of a few months, starting, if possible, July 1. Can you help me?"

"I think I can. Listen, do you have something to write with?"

"Yes, I'm listening."

She gave him the phone of a cousin of hers, Mauro Stellin, who handled temporary rentals in the Dorsoduro district of Venice, their part of town. That's how Brent found a nice sized, top floor, furnished apartment almost next door to the Casa Artom in the heart of his former neighborhood. It was available, because of an annulation, July 4.

Brent thought to himself that the angels were on his side. He should arrive in Venice on Independence Day!

Mauro said he could arrange to meet him at the airport, hire a 'motoscafo' (a speedboat taxi) to bring him and his luggage to the door of his new address. He told Brent how much that would cost. "Let's splurge!" replied Brent, glad to see how things were turning out.

He finally found a flight and booked it. He also found a house-sitter for his home in Raleigh. The day before the taxi picked him up to go to Raleigh-Durham Airport, he put his Tesla in the garage and buckled his bags.

He flew to Venice, via Philadelphia and the following morning was at Marco Polo International Airport. Mauro was there to meet him and an hour later he was in his new home on the Fondamenta Ospedalo. (A 'fondamenta' is the Venetian term meaning a pedestrian sidewalk along a canal.)

Brent unpacked, called Mrs. Cechetti saying he had safely arrived, and was going to eat something before collapsing from jet lag!

It took him about a week to get readjusted. Ten years was not a long time, but Venice had changed some -- and he as well. There were less grocery shops, bakers, barbers, hardware stores, etc. They were replaced with cheap tourist shops selling 'made in China' plastic gondolas, carnival masks and post cards. Also, the presence of day tourists, pouring by thousands out of the garishly vulgar, floating resorts, disguised as cruise ships, entering Venice through the Canal della Guidecca was a cultural, social, and ecological crime. Brent was horrified by the hordes of stunned, ill dressed tourists stumbling along, grouped like hostages, following an obviously bored or hysterical guide...

Even the students at Casa Artom now clung together as if they had never left Winston-Salem, their faces blank with repressed anguish noticed Brent.

But Venice was still Venice and by dodging the tourist flow, little by little he began to feel the magnetic flow of serenity in his flesh. His visits with Mrs. Cechetti helped. He opened an account in the same bank he used before. He reintroduced himself to the pastry shop keeper close by, who greeted him with a smile every morning. A cappucino with a cream croissant can sometimes work miracles.

In the evenings, he often went and sat at the Point of the Dogana to watch the incessant ballet of boats, fleeting or creeping along as the twilight lights of the city appeared one after the other. The elegant silhouette of San Marco floated in the golden glow of the setting sun. Beauty consoled as well.

Finally he was able to get back to work on his book. He disciplined himself to write and revise from seven to eleven in the morning. His work progressed quite well.

The rest of the day, he explored the endless treasures of the city, photographing all kinds of angels painted or sculpted in the numerous churches and other religious monuments of Venice. That's how he came across a drawing of a reclining angel by Tiepolo. He was stunned by the evident erotic energy it radiated. He was able to buy a reproduction in a specialized shop near the Campo San Stefano. He put it in a frame, and hung it over his desk. The angel became his muse.

There's a kind of solitary euphoria, a state of elation in writing and finding inspiration in such inebriating surroundings. In his notebook, Brent jotted down this observation: "How did I succeed in writing something worthwhile, living in Raleigh, losing my time with Dorothy, imagining that socializing was a duty for an author? The only true success is finding peace and stimulation in desire... and not in duty."

Soon it would be August. Brent's book began to take good shape. He put the first draft of his work on a memory stick, still needing to see his text on paper in order to control and improve it.

He asked Mrs. Cechetti where he could find a nearby copy shop. She told him there was a good 'copisteria' in the Calle Lunga San Barnaba (A 'calle' is the Venetian word for street). That was still a good ten minutes walk passing by the Zattere and Fondamenta del Borgo. He was getting used to no cars and lots of walking, but now with the tourists, there were sometimes jams, especially at the bridges like the Accademia and the Toleta. It had become a part of the charms of Venice, trying to find alternative itineraries.

He finally found the shop.

As he walked in, he was awestruck by the celestial vision of an angel working at the photocopiers.

He approached the lady at the counter and stammered a greeting of some sorts in English, still gazing at the angel.

"No speak English... Sorry," and then she shouted out, "Florian!"

Florian... like the famous café on San Marco was therefore the angel's name. The lady was obviously the boss. Florian, the angel, came over. She said something to him in Venetian and turned away to take care of another customer.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

Brent, cleared his throat and uttered, "Yes... Yes, please, Florian... I gather that's your name, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sir, Florian Ravagnan," he replied smiling, "what can I do for you?"

Brent explained that he needed to have printed the hundred and some pages of his manuscript contained in the memory stick. He went on explaining that there was a specific file for each chapter and he wanted each chapter enclosed in a separate folder.

"Very well, Sir, but that will take a certain time. Can you return, let's say in an hour?"

Mumbling halfway to himself, Brent said, "That could be problem... I have some errands to run and must be back home on the Fondamenta Ospedalo for the telephone man to install my wifi. I guess I'll come..."

"Fondamenta Ospedaleto?" interrupted Florian.

Brent apologized, "Excuse me, I was thinking aloud... I guess I'll come back tomorrow."

"May I suggest that I bring your copies to your house after work? I live in Calle Molin. It's just at the turn in the Fondamenta Ospedaleto."

"Calle Molin, yes, I see! Great! My apartment is in the house at that corner. What time could you be there?"

"About twenty past seven, is that too late?"

"Not at all. That's very kind of you, Florian! My house number is 379. Just ring at the upper button marked B. F. I'll buzz you open. I'm on the top floor to the right. Thanks again!"

"It's on my way, Sir. No problem!" Florian replied, giving Brent a heart melting smile.

"Let me pay you now," stated Brent, pulling out his wallet, "By the way, your English is really good!"

"Thank you, Sir... I was in Dublin for three years, working in the copy department of an Office Depot. Give me a second to total up your bill. I need your name and address for the invoice."

"Brent Fleming, Dorsoduro, 379, Venice"

"Very well, Mr. Fleming."

Florian rang. Brent opened an instant later and found Florian standing in the door with an archive box under his arm.

"Did I ask for a box?"

"It's free, Sir, compliments of the shop! Your chapters are inside, in separate elastic folders, as you instructed."

"Come on in and put the box on the table... A glass of wine?"

"I don't want to intrude..." replied Florian, looking a bit embarrassed.

"Where's the intrusion? It's my pleasure. After all, it's happy hour too, so have a seat!"

"Thank you."

Brent took a bottle of local white wine out of the fridge, filled two glasses and joined Florian at the table.

"Cheers! And to the delivery service!" stated Brent, raising his glass.

"You're welcome, Sir."

"Call me Brent, please... 'Sir' makes me feel old!"

"Very well... Brent. Cheers to you too."

"Tell me, Florian, are you a genuine Venetian?"

Florian beamed saying, "One hundred percent! Both my mother's and father's family have been here ever since... ever since, always, I guess. They live in Burano."

"The island with all the little colored houses?"

"Exactly... the tiny houses! As soon as the children finish school, they have to leave home. Not enough room when you're grown! A mate of mine had a good job in Dublin. It's important for us here in Venice to speak English... So, I left to join him. Dublin's nice, but only the sea can beat Venice! When I came back, I was lucky to find a studio for myself about a hundred meters from here, and a job."

"Interesting... Do you enjoy your work?"

Florian took another sip of his wine, tilted his head, smiled, and politely said, "Sometimes."

Brent understood that he had touched a sensitive subject and decided best not to insist.

Feeling less shy, Florian inquired, "If you don't mind, could you tell me what's your work, Brent? Are you here on a job or just for holidays?"

"I write historical novels for a living. The one I'm working on now is situated in Venice, which explains why I'm here. I normally live in Raleigh, North Carolina, but I studied at the Casa Artom... you know, the house on the Grand Canal with the Wake Forest University shield on it. That was ten years ago and I fell in love with the city."

"I really enjoy reading, but you're the first genuine writer I've ever met... I feel honored."

"And you are the first genuine Venetian I've ever met and that's also an honor for me!"

Florian blushed, looked over at the archive box and said, touching it, "Is this a book you're working on now?"

"Yes, it is. I'm working on an exciting story about the angels in Venetian painting. To be more precise, I'm investigating all sorts of relations between the painter and his apprentices. They often serve as models for anonymous subjects such as angels. We all know too that the apprentices were often lovers, or at least sex toys for their masters. I try to develop the link between artists, models and angels. Here in Venice, the angels are quite erotic."

"Venice is erotic... in every way imaginable."

"I'm beginning to discover that! For the time being, I'm just concentrating myself on Tiepolo. His angels are wonderfully androgynous, gay, and in some cases nearly pornographic like the drawing over my desk. It's the reproduction of a work by Tiepolo. Rarely have I seen a young man's orgasm depicted with such elegance. Even the choice of carmine pastels is quite sexy..."

"Bellissimo! He's beautiful... He looks like he's enjoying what's happening."

"Yes, he does, indeed. Also, as a part of my research, I do a lot of photography here. Venetian churches are crowded with angels! Another glass of wine?"

"Yes, thank you," replied Florian, holding out his glass, "could you tell me some more about your work and America. I find you absolutely fascinating."

"You flatter me!"

"No, I'm sincerely interested your work. I'd love to know how you began doing it. Really I do!"

"That could take a while. Are you in a hurry to get home?"

"Not at all, Sir. I've got all the time in the world... "

Brent flashed Florian a mock frown.

"Sir, did you say, Sir? Do I actually look that old?" interrupted Brent, teasing Florian.

"That's not what I meant... uh, I mean... well I don't know what to say anymore."

"Listen, I'm thirty-two and you're...?"

"Twenty-two."

"And we're alive, enjoying together a nice glass of wine, getting to know each other, and that's already wonderful. Right?"

"Right!" Florian echoed, raising his glass.

They toasted, smiling at each other.

"Listen, Florin, it's getting late and I'm hungry. Can I tell you my stories over a pizza? I'm inviting."

"Are you sure I'm not imposing?"

"In spite of my ancient age, I hope you think I still know what I'm saying!"

The summer's evening was pastel warm. The wide Canal della Giudecca's vast fondamenta was also very inviting. They took a table outside of the pizzeria overlooking the water, Alla Zattere. There they evoked their boyhoods and their love of the water, of sailing, for Brent on Bogue Sound and for Florian in the Venice Laguna. They laughed when they admitted they loved to skinny dip too!

With the wine helping their tongues to relax, Brent actually complimented Florian's 'angelic' looks.

"You know, Florian, you could have modeled for Tiepolo a few centuries ago. You are an outstandingly handsome young man."

"It's funny you say that. One evening with my mate in a pub in Dublin, we sat down beside some girls at the bar. One of them, turned to see who was there. She gasped and exclaimed, 'Jesus! You're gorgeous!' I didn't know if she was having a mystical vision or not... and I didn't understand the word 'gorgeous'. Her other friends looked around at me too and another said, 'Polly, you're damn right!' Well, we struck up conversation and it turned out to be quite a night! I found my way back to our house share at dawn, and no longer a virgin..." smiled Florian, giving Brent a silly wink.

"That can happen! Good for you... Listen, Florian, would you let me photograph you. In my book, it could be nice to put the picture of an authentic, angelic Venetian in along with the other illustrations. I can pay you for your work... because it's real work, I can assure you!"

"Pay me? You've already given me wine, a dinner, and your time! I'd be glad to model for you. But you'll have to coach me. I had a mate in school who modeled at the Accademia for the student painters. He said it was a real job and he really liked it."

"Okay, then it's a deal!"

They agreed on the following Wednesday afternoon, Florian's day off. They joked some more walking back. Stopping in front of Brent's door, they shook hands, and bade each other good night.

As Brent was climbing the stairs to his apartment, he chuckled to himself, feeling happier that evening than he had felt in ages.

Wednesday afternoon came around. Venice can be terribly hot and humid in August... very hot, and it was hot in the apartment too. Brent had prepared the front room for the photo shoot. The white curtains in front of the window would make a great backdrop with the sunlight glowing behind. He also prepared some poses with a chair and the sofa.

The doorbell rang. Florian scrambled up the stairs and entered the open door.

"Come in. You look great, freshly shaven and all. But I think we're going to mess up your hair some... too neat for an angel!"

Florian laughed and shook his head, making his curly hair dance around his face.

"Is this how you want it?"

"Great."

Florian dropped his backpack by the door saying, "It's really warm today. I can't stop sweating..."

"Would you like something cool to drink?"

"Just water, please."

"I've a bottle in the fridge. Wine's for later. Now, we've got work to do."

Florian paced around a little. He seemed to be a bit tense.

"Take a seat. I'm going to massage your shoulders to loosen you up some, make you feel lighter. Relax. Remember, you're an angel!" said Brent, halfway joking.

"That feels sooooo goooood, Brent! Wow!"

The massage worked. Florian was relaxed and in the mood to pose.

First, Brent made portraits. He suggested expressions and little by little Florian's expressions came naturally as Brent asked him to smile, to day-dream, to stare in the distance, etc. Then Brent asked him try to be a bit more coy, flirtatious, peeking over his shoulder, bringing his finger to his cheek, licking his lips.

As the shoot went on, Brent told Florian to remove his shirt. He began reaching into space, playing with his hair, caressing his chest, wiping the back of his neck, airing his pits.

He was pure perfection in the flesh. His skin was delicate, reflecting the light like silk. Brent even dared some audacious close-ups and Florian gave in to the game with grace.

"Not too tired, Florian?"

"And you?"

"Not for the time being...!"

"Me neither. I love doing this!"

They carried on with other poses on the chair and then reclining on the sofa. The light, sloping in through the window onto Florian's chest, damp with sweat, was even more vibrant, closer to a painting.

"Would you mind posing nude?"

Florian said nothing. He just pulled off his jeans and boxers, tossed then over by the door, and resumed posing, reclining on his side, facing the camera. His very elegant cock was in perfect proportion with all the rest, uncut and flawless, crowned by a small tuft of blondish curls.

Brent took shot after shot, his breath was shallow, sweat pearled on his brow. He too discarded his shirt. Florian's cock lengthened.

"I'm dying of thirst! And you?" exclaimed Brent, readjusting the bulge in his bermudas.

"Please!" replied Florian as he rolled over on his back, stretching an arm over his head.

Brent gave Florian his glass. He drank and handed his glass back with a sincere thank you.

Florian returned with a wet washcloth, saying, "I'm going to sponge you off some before we continue."

Florian closed his eyes and sighed when Brent wiped his brow, then his neck and chest. As he passed the washcloth a bit lower, Florian's very erect cock began to throb and dribble crystal clear strands of gleaming slick.

Brent felt a bit faint, his heart was pounding. He glanced at Florian's face. Their eyes locked. Brent's hand trembled as he dampened Florian's rigid cock. Drawn together by a same desire, Florian opened his arms as Brent knelt, letting himself drown in Florian's embrace.

They rolled off the sofa onto the cool marble floor. They squirmed, tussling together. In a furious whirlpool of lust, Florian grabbed Brent's bermudas. He ripped them open and yanked them down.

Once both were naked, they hugged, rubbed, and writhed, humping, fondling, gripping cock. They jacked each other as precum drooled. Then thrusting, stabbing each other's fist, they were carried away on the riptide of an impending climax.

Florian suddenly stiffened and screamed. He spewed spurt after spurt of creamy sperm. It seeped between Brent's fingers as he fisted harder and harder. Florian then caught his breath and his grip on Brent's cock sped even faster. Brent howled, releasing an intense flow of semen, nearly convulsing, shook by the most massive orgasm he had ever experienced, gasping on the verge of passing out.

Then he shuddered and jumped to his feet, gawking at his sticky hands. He dashed to the bathroom. Florian heard water running. A second later, Brent reappeared with a towel and threw it at Florian.

"Clean yourself off and get dressed."

Florian was disconcerted.

"What's wrong Brent?"

"I'm sorry," was all he angrily muttered, as he nearly tripped, trying to get into his boxers.

"Sorry for what?" screamed Florian, totally bewildered.

"Sorry for what I did, ruining our afternoon, our work, our friendship..."

"What in the hell are you talking about? What happened to us was fantastic! I want to see you again, Brent!"

"I think it's better that you leave."

"Shit! What's going on? I don't understand! You write about sex between an artist and his model. We were just that, you the artist and me the model!"

Brent muttered something inaudible. Florian surrendered. He composed himself as he dressed. "I see that you don't believe what you write, Brent. You're too much a liar to yourself to take it, aren't you? I thought you were a GENUINE writer, not a pretender of a writer, Brent! You're just a fucking phony. I believed you... I wanted to see you again... but now..."

"Please SHUT UP, Florian! And leave me alone! I need to think by myself!"

"That you do, Brent! You really do..."

Florian, always elegant, left, letting the door slam behind him.

Clouds had piled up over Venice. Lightning struck somewhere nearby. The storm broke as the wind made the curtains coil and swell.

Brent just stood there in his sagging underwear, dumbfounded, dismayed. Florian's words were daggers. Brent knew that Florian had spoken the truth and he had rebuked him.

The angel of truth had given himself, body and soul... and realizing that, for the first time in decades, Brent's guts retched. He wept, uttering, "And what did I give him? What did I give him, good God?"

He rushed to the window and threw back the drenched curtain to see Florian disappear in the downpour, never looking back.

Brent tried to write, but Florian still haunted him. For the next two days, Brent progressively became gentler with himself. He began to see himself in Florian's light. He sat at his Mac and wrote to Florian.

"Florian,

Please accept my apologies! I'm beginning to understand myself better. Unexpected things, hidden things are clearing up in my head.

Talking about my head, I don't know if you can understand all the shit people put in our young heads, growing up in North Carolina: primitive religion, redneck politics, and generalized stupidity that drive youth mad with fear of damnation, terrorized by brainwashed fathers, teaching them to despise any authentic human nature different from their 'convictions'.

If by misfortune, we were born intelligent, sensitive and... and mixed up, like I was with my real self, it can open the way to tragedy!

I didn't know why my girlfriend never really turned me on. I didn't know why I no longer wanted to fuck her, why I didn't even get a hard on when she fondled me, sucked me, licked me. Her stench of lust made me want to vomit. I thought I was sick. She finished by slamming the door on me too.

But thanks to you, I slowly discovered that I'm not sick! With you I discovered that I'm perfectly healthy, even very healthy. You revealed my deepest, unknown desires. I had hidden them so deep in my mind. I was scared to death to let myself be ME. My real self surged into the light as I lost myself in the orgasm we shared. I can never thank you enough, Florian, for the innocent beauty of your open arms and glistening cock. Thank you for that beautiful human truth, giving us the force to love -- to love each other, and above to love ourselves!

If you still want to see me again, know that I'm yearning to see you again and again -- I yearn for you like I yearn for life itself!

I know I'm probably exaggerating, but those words are as true as fire burns.

Brent."

He put the letter in his memory stick along with a choice of pictures he had taken of Florian and returned to the 'copisteria'. It was 4:00 PM, Saturday.

Florian went pale seeing Brent coming through the door of the shop. He immediately ran up to the counter holding his breath.

Brent stuttered, "Florian, here are some of the pictures we made, plus a letter for you. Print the contents and read the letter in private. Then, if you're free, could you please bring me the photo prints, that is if you don't mind returning to my apartment."

"I'll cancel everything for you, Brent."

"Seven-thirty?... "

"I can leave here earlier on Saturdays..."

"Five thirty?"

Florain nodded.

"How much do I owe you for the prints?" asked Brent, pulling out his wallet.

"Keep your money! This is my pleasure now..."

The boss lady shot a puzzled glance at Florian, then politely smiled at Brent as he left the shop.

Florian was beaming, his eyes damp with emotion as Brent opened the door.

They hugged for a long moment.

Florian broke the embrace and softly said, "I read your letter, Brent. Of course I forgave you as soon as I was at the bottom of the stairs. I understood you were terribly mixed up. You weren't angry with me. You were angry with something that was clawing at your soul, holding you back. Something evil was trying to keep its control over you."

"Can you understand why I acted the way I did? I mean really understand?"

"Really... really understand? No, I can't. Nobody can really understand another person, no matter how close they can be to each other. But I can feel if there's evil working or not. For you, I only felt your despair... I was... how to say..."

Suddenly Florian hushed, looking for his words, then continued, "I was surprised and hurt, but I also knew you had to rid yourself, by yourself, of the evil that was poisoning your soul. I couldn't let it poison mine with you, so I left. And I waited... waited and prayed."

"Good God, you're unique, Florian!"

"Do you know what it's like when a mirror is facing another mirror?"

"I don't understand..."

"When you're standing between two mirrors, what do you see?"

"I see something endless, like a tunnel... Why?"

Florian began unbuttoning Brent's shirt as he spoke, "What you see, Brent, is Infinity. We are like those two mirrors facing each other. Our souls are twins, lost, yet finding each other, reflecting each other... infinitely."

Brent took Florian's face between his hands and calmly kissed him. Florian opened his mouth, receiving Brent's tongue inside. They pressed in closer.

Florian then whispered, "Can we go to your bedroom?"

Holding hands, Brent and Florian went to his bed. In silence they undressed each other and stretched out on the spread. They kissed again, then they licked nipples, pits, necks, and turning, they nuzzled navels, and together, they swallowed each other's oozing cock, kneading, pulling on each other's hunching buttocks. They drank the vital energy flowing in spirals between them, inside them, united in the infinite bliss of carnal communion. Erotic energy filled them until they began to overflow. Male instinct made them thrust as they swallowed, quenching an urgent thirst, savoring their budding love.

Later, just before the grocery store closed, they went in to buy something to eat. They didn't want to eat out. They wanted to spend the evening, just the two of them alone, just Brent and Florian, together.

To Brent's surprise, the grocer exclaimed, "Buona sera, Florian! Good evening, Sior Fleming."

Then he laughed out loud, saying something to Florian in Venetian. Florian laughed along with him. Turning to Brent, Florian explained, "I shop here too. Armando says he's glad we found each other. He said he loves matching people, and thought we two would really match."

"Tell him he's a prophet!"

Florian translated and Armando laughed even more, tapping them both on the shoulder. They bought some bread, a few slices of smoked salmon, a choice of fruits and a bottle of wine. Once back in the apartment, they shared a candlelit dinner, before returning to bed and to a night of even sweeter delights.

The morning found them enlaced. Brent slowly woke up, being very careful to not disturb Florian. He moved ever so gently, trying to slip out of bed. Just as he was able to put his foot on the floor, Florian grabbed his arm and mumbled, "Wait for me!"

"I've got to pee."

"Me too..."

Florian turned on the shower. There was just enough room for two.

"Do you have coffee?" inquired Florian as he scrubbed Brent's back.

"Enough for this morning."

They didn't bother to dress for breakfast and in a flash were back in bed.

They cuddled, caressing each other as the church bells rang Sunday mass.

"Already? Wow, what a night!" exclaimed Florian as he fondled Brent's hardening cock.

"I haven't slept that late in ages..."

"And with a healthy, hard cock too! I love you so much, Brent! It almost hurts," stated Florian, nibbling Brent's ear.

"I'm beginning to feel the same for you, my lusty, loving angel!"

"Now you can write a real true book, a book about us. All you have to do is just keep track of what we're living... in detail! I can take care of the details! I'm certain it'll be a best-seller. I can even translate it in Italian... and add my touch of spice!"

"Now that's an idea!" chuckled Brent, turning over almost on top of Florian, pressing their cocks together.

"Mmm, that feels so good," uttered Florian, squirming.

Brent twirled a curl or two of Florian's locks in his fingers, then pensively asked, "What's your craziest dream, Florian?"

Florian thought an instant and replied, "The craziest?"

"Yes, something you've always wanted to live and didn't even dare hope for... You know, something crazy, unreasonable, something a serious young man could never have the balls to do and yet that's all he's ever really yearned for."

Florian pushed Brent over and looked at him straight in the eyes, saying, "Live on a sailboat, take pictures of the beauty of the sea, denounce the way humans treat it, and most of all, make love all the time with you!"

"Good God, Florian! You have just mirrored my soul!" Brent exclaimed, sitting up.

Then after an instant, he continued, "And, even if it's crazy... that's exactly what we're going to do! We're going to do it SINCE it's crazy!"

"Do what?"

"Buy a boat, live aboard and sail the seven seas, taking pictures, writing, and... and do all the time what you said."

"Are you serious, Brent?"

"Dead serious! We both love sailing, don't we? If you say the book of our love is going to be a best seller, and in two languages, we'll be rich, just sailing around loving each other! Believe me!"

"I want to believe you, but..."

"But what! If you don't believe me, then it won't work. Stop wanting and start believing."

"I think I can work better on believing doing this," laughed Florian as he disappeared under the sheets.

Brent gasped, ripped away the sheets, flipped around giggling, and said, "I think you're right. We'll believe better after some more breakfast!"

"Yummy!"

It was a lost Sunday for anything else but love, however, they were able to dress and go out for a great fish dinner. They discussed the idea of a boat and the more they talked about it, more it sounded feasible.

"Listen, Florian, I've got money sleeping in the bank. My finances can handle a project like this. Do you see anything that could go against it?"

"Just one thing... You're paying for everything and I'm struggling to keep myself fed and housed. I don't want you to think I'm taking advantage of you with my crazy dream..."

"Let's put things this way. You have rights on the idea. It's your creation! Am I not correct?"

Florian nodded.

"I'm not trying to buy your rights. I just want to invest and have the right to be a part of your dream."

"You aren't a PART of it. You are IT!" quipped Florian.

"But you were the one who pronounced the key sentence, put the dream into words. I owe you and not the other way around."

"Do I understand that only crazy dreams are true creations?"

"When it comes to creating how to live a life, yes! That's exactly what it is. An indispensable, unavoidable, absolutely necessary crazy dream! So, wake up, man! You're the creator in this case. I beg you, please let me pay the royalties to make it happen!"

"How can I not let you?"

On their way back, Brent said, "I'm going to start looking on the internet for boats on sale around here tomorrow."

"Good... Brent, I'm dead tired... I'll be worthless tomorrow if I don't get some sleep. These past twenty-four hours were so full of emotions, of sex and of love, that I'm totally exhausted. Would you mind if I go back to my place now?"

"You're the judge, my wonderful angel. I could use some rest and time by myself too... These past days have been emotionally exhausting and I've got to get used to loving you, little by little."

They kissed in front of Brent's door, oblivious to the people, smiling as they ghosted by in silence.

"I'll be back tomorrow evening after work."

"I love you... Sleep well!"

"You too..."

Instead of working on his book, Brent spent all morning long browsing through the local boat ads. One caught his attention. A Grand Soleil 34, in excellent condition, equipped for the high seas, was for sale, based in Chioggia, a small port and village about an hour away with a boat-bus, the vaporetto. He rang the broker and made an appointment for Wednesday.

Florian buzzed at 7:15 PM and ran up the stairs with a sack of groceries in his arms.

"I'm cooking tonight!"

"Great! I think I've found the boat... at least I hope so! We've got an appointment to be in Chioggio at 9:00 AM Wednesday. Is that fine for you?"

"Can't wait... but aren't you going to kiss me?"

"Put the groceries on the table first!"

Brent opened his arms and they shared a long, authentic lovers' kiss, the kind that's full of promises of a lot more loving fun to come.

Wednesday morning, they took the first vaporetto of the Line 6 from the Zattere to the Lido, changed for Chioggia on Line 11 and arrived at the broker's office in San Felice Marina at the same time as he was opening. Paolo Bettin, the broker, greeted them and immediately led them to the boat.

They inspected her inside and out. Paolo showed Brent and Florian the documents proving that the motor had only a hundred and some hours and had been totally retuned. The hull had been careened, with a new coat of antifouling, and the anodes replaced.

Inside, everything was provided: bedding, galley utensils, heating, and the electronics were up to date with radio, satnav, automatic pilot, and satellite wifi. There was an inflatable life boat and all the necessary security devices. The boat was like new and in perfect sea-going condition. Her affordable price intrigued Brent.

"Paolo, why is the owner selling at such a low price?" Brent inquired.

"To be perfectly honest, the gentleman's last business endeavor is on the verge of bankruptcy. He's Austrian and in dire need of cash. This can explain the price, hoping for an urgent sale," simply stated the broker.

"I understand."

"I'm very interested, but I need a trial sail to be sure and give you a flat yes or no."

"I thought so. After lunch, we can take her out. May I drive you to a little restaurant I know in town? I can pick you up at 1:30..."

"Thank you! With pleasure."

The afternoon under sail was convincing.

Paolo left Brent and Florian alone in the cabin as he and an employee, furled the sails.

"What do you think, Florian? Is she to your taste for living aboard?"

"Good God, Brent! It's more than I could have dreamt of! I feel at home... not only because of the boat, but especially because I'm onboard her with you."

"Let's rename her 'Avalon', the dream island become reality!"

"Absolutely!"

When Paolo came back, Brent wrote out a check covering the sale and requested the broker to handle the paperwork.

"But I must know if we put the boat under American or Italian registry."

"Italian, under the name of Florian Ravagnan. Florian, could you let the gentleman photocopy your ID card and have your address?"

Florian's hand trembled as he jotted down his address and dug his ID out of his wallet. Paolo didn't even blink a lash.

Brent added, "Please register me as co-owner, fifty-fifty. Here's my passport, my card's inside. And, by the way, please have her renamed 'Avalon' and put it on the transom."

Very business-like, Paolo replied, "I understand. You should be able to pick up 'Avalon' in, let's say, ten days at the most. I have your number in case I need it, and you have mine. Sirs, this has been a very pleasant day and I wish you very fair wind!"

They bought some sandwiches before boarding the 8:45 PM boat back to Venice.

It was close to 9:30 when they were back in Brent's apartment.

"Let's celebrate, Captain Florian!" shouted Brent, grabbing a bottle of prosecco out of the fridge.

"Yes, let's celebrate, Captain Brent!" Florian sang out, putting two glasses on the table and in between, a small paper bag.

As he popped the cork, Brent asked, "What's that?"

"Take a look."

"Here, take over the bottle and pour the bubbles."

There was a package of condoms and a tube of lube in the bag.

"Are you sure that you... that you want to... well, you know!"

"For me to feel you all the way in me? Yes! I want it. I need it. I need to accomplish my personal legend with you. You are my 'maravegia', my miracle."

"I don't know, beloved Florian, what a personal legend is. But I do know, that we were destined to love each other all the way."

"I'm glad you thought about protection, but you know, I'm clean."

"Me too. I just thought it would be meaningful for us to be tested together, as a kind of celebration of trust, so to speak. So until then, let's have fun with condoms. If you don't know how they're used, I can help! Ha!"

"Oh, shut up!"

"Well, we'll do it for each other! It's sexier that way. By the way, I've an extra tube of lube too," he added.

They took their time, in the glow of the candles, sipping their prosecco, then showering together and slipping into bed.

They took even more time with some extremely erotic foreplay, preparing each other's virginal entrance.

"Don't tantalize me any further, Brent!" panted Florian, turning face down on the bed. With his back arched, he raised his buttocks. Brent caressed Florian's dilated sphincter, inserting his finger, massaging his angel's prostate. Then he tore open the condom and rolled it down over his trembling cock, slathered it with lube and placed the tip of his glans just at the right angle.

Florian reached behind himself and grabbed Brent's buttock, urging him in. Brent, extremely attentive to Florian's slightest expression of discomfort or pain, took his time barely pushing, letting Florian's body absorb him. Florian's slightest movement electrified Brent's throbbing cock.

Florian gasped as he rose with impatience driving Brent all the way in. Then he sighed, beaming as he turned to see Brent on the verge of fainting, eyes wide open, his mouth agape. Both moved with instinct. Their slow, sensual dance united not only their flesh but above all their surrendering souls.

Then the dance became tempestuous. They writhed in frenzy until their bodies found a rhythm carrying them beyond human control. A cosmic wave of vital energy swept through them, possessing them. Brent, on the brink of blasting, pressed Florian against his chest clawing the tense flesh of Florian's delicate shoulders. His lust overruled all refrain. Florian felt the ecstasy of abandon to Brent's frantic jolts, seeking even more depth as he pushed and rolled, twisting his head, finding Brent's drooling lips.

An unmistakable scream resounded in the night. Florian's most intimate muscles squeezed Brent's softening sex. He surrendered to his sovereign's inert, sweating body, sprawled, panting, on top of him.

Nothing was said as Brent rolled over on his side. Florian cuddled into Brent's embrace. He nudged his rigid cock in between Brent's sweaty thighs.

Brent whispered, "Never have I lived such a mind blowing moment, Florian. Be blest, -- You have conquered my soul. Now my body is yours to conquer... whenever..."

"Brent, I'm on fire inside. I'm burning. I'm terribly afraid of going wild. Something savage is happening deep down in me. Help!"

Brent simply reached over and sheathed Florian's rampant cock with a condom.

"Whatever that's driving you wild knows what to do. Kiss me and let it take over," uttered Brent reclining.

Wild it was! Florian's grace became ferocious as he discovered the penetrating force of entering Brent's yearning flesh. Brent discovered the grace of receiving that force.

Wild was the night... wild, yet tremendously tender.

As the morning heat rose in the bedroom, Florian woke up and staggered off to pee. When he returned, Brent slid out of bed, saying, "Be right back!"

Once back in bed, he fell into Florian's open arms, smothering him with kisses. They cuddled, giggling like naughty lads, tickling each other. As they rollicked together, Florian managed to utter, "How many condoms do we have left?"

"Already?"

"Well, after breakfast... We have all day, don't we?"

"And all night too..."

After that, things went fast!

Florian gave his boss lady the two week's notice he owed her. Brent turned in the keys to his apartment on the Fondamenta Ospedaleto and moved in with Florian.

They returned to Chioggia and came back via the inland channel under motor to their mooring in the Marina delle Vignole.

The following days, they went through the ordeal of choosing what to take aboard, what to sell, what to give or throw away. Also Brent had business to take care of on his side of the ocean. Once they were settled aboard 'Avalon', Brent asked, "I hope you have a valid passport, Florian."

"Yes, it's still good. I had it made in case I wanted to go to Canada. Why?"

"You're coming with me to Raleigh. We've got things to do there also!"

Except for the police and custom's upon arrival, Florian was impressed by the friendliness of the people in North Carolina, at least by some of them. But that was it.

Brent contracted a realtor to put his house up for rent, bringing him a little steady income. He sold his Tesla for a very good price. They organized an auction for the furniture and gave a little farewell party for his small circle of friends. It was also a great occasion for him to make his coming-out with Florian. Brent's parents were very cold and rather glad he was leaving.

They rode the Amtrak up to Richmond to have a talk with Brent's editor and explain the delay concerning the manuscript of his current book and their idea of a new book. The Tiepolo book had to be sent, deadline, April. As for the new one, he simply said, "Do I have to open a gay porn section?"

"That's your problem. If you don't accept, you'll lose a fortune for yourself!" jested Brent.

"I don't think I'll give it up, Brent. Bon voyage!"

They continued to Washington-Dulles and flew back to Venice, changing in Lisbon.

They gave an elegant reception aboard 'Avalon', just for their circle of friends and Florian's family.

They were two very happy men as they sailed out of the inlet into a fairly stiff warm wind, under a clear September sun.

"So, where do we go now, Florian?"

"Dovunque il vento..." he replied, stripping.

"Wherever the wind, you say... Good program!"

Once naked, Florian stretched out on the bench facing Brent in the cockpit and asked, "Captain, can we soon turn the automatic pilot on?"

A free picture album illustrating this story (pdf) is available upon request at maringiustinian@laposte.net.