Date: Fri, 24 Sep 1999 09:18:55 -0400
From: Ganymede
Subject: Prego M/b

Prego. Part 1. A Story by Ganymede


WARNING:


This story contains a graphic description of sexual acts
between a man and a MINOR boy. If the subject of man/boy sex
offends you, if this material is illegal  in your place of
residence, or if you are under the legal age for such   material,
do not read further! The author has no intention of causing harm,
or inciting other to harmful acts against minors. You have been
warned! Read at your own risk!

 The story is copyrighted under the pseudonym, Ganymede.
Copies been submitted ro the Nifty archive and the ASSGM
newsgroup/archive. Feel free to post it to other  newsgroups or
send it to your friends. If you enjoy my story, please contribute
funds to a charitable organization providing services for boys.

For those of you who wish to see what Riccardi Guarini
looks like, the author recommends mem57. The similarity is simply
amazing. However, any other resemblance to any individual, alive
or dead, is unfortunate.



FINAL WARNING:

If you are under the age of 18, if this material is
illegal  in your   place of residence, or if man-boy
relationships aren't  your thing, then exit   now and save
yourself from a life of sin!



Prego. A Story by Ganymede.


Chapter 1.


By steering well clear of the tourist resorts of Porto
Cervo and Cala di Volpe on the Costa Smeralda, it is still
possible to find the 'unconquered Sardina' of D.H. Lawrence. With
patience and diligence, one finds a cultural heritage from the
Cretans, Carthaginians, Phoenicians, and Romans, and more
recently, the sea-faring Italian city states. And Spain too, has
left its mark on this Mediterranean island off the coast of Italy
after four centuries of rule. Like its people, the landscape is
rugged, a continuous interruption of white sandy beaches washed
by crystal-clear water, a hinterland of pinewood and bursts of
vivid color from an abundance of wildflowers that appear in great
profusion every Spring. Since medieval times, the dawn of spring
has been celebrated with an extraordinary agricultural rite, the
Sartiglia di Oristano, and the unparalleled equestrian
celebration of the Cavalcata Sarda. Five kilometers of corniche
with sheer granite cliffs on either side of a narrow winding road
follows the Costa Paradiso as it leads to Trinita d'Agultu, a
small village perched on the side of a hill that overlooks a
broad sweep of rugged coast.

I first glimpsed the straggling houses of Trinita d'Agultu
as the bus negotiated a hair-pin turn and send a shower of gravel
cascading out over the cliff as we came dangerously close to a
sheer drop to jagged rocks below. Another several hundred meters
and I breathed deeply, awestruck by the drama of the village and
the landscape. A proud spire identified the center of town, a
pinnacle reaching into the bright blue sky. With curious deja vu,
I sensed this solitary place to be the center of my existence. It
would become nothing less than my raison d'etre.

I came to Sardinia for two reasons. I came to work, to
take photographs of the Spring festivals of Sartiglia di
Oristano, and to forget my brother's untimely death. And while
the latter reason gave me cause for continued pain, I was
required to visit Trinita d'Agultu under the terms of his will.
However, I was largely uninterested in claiming my inheritance,
and undertook the excursion because it provided an opportunity to
relax and escape the tourists and the expensive yachts of Porto
Cervo. During the trip, I thought often of my half-brother as I
looked beyond the dusty windows of the bus and watched the azure
sea passing on my right. He was older by four years, and I knew
he resented the fact that my father was not his father. Despite
that, we were still close, closer than most brothers. In fact
from the age of ten to the time I turned fourteen and he left to
attend Edinburgh University, we were more lovers than brothers.

 Now, I wondered what brought him to Sardinia. With a
single exception, Bryce was not one to appreciate the same things
that I did. Without the cultured convenience of Fleet Street, I
doubted whether Bryce would enjoy the severe beauty I had admired
on the bus trip.

 I walked from the bus stop in the village piazza, along
cobbled streets barely wide enough for the smallest Fiat. I
climbed up one hundred and ten stairs and went down fifty three
more of them before I found the place I was looking for. There
was no sign announcing its presence, but its very size and
materials of construction indicated it was something more than a
single family house. One time, perhaps even this century it had
been a palazzo, a very small palazzo with no more than twenty
rooms. I entered through the wrought iron gates and walked into a
small courtyard garden.

Brilliant green foliage contrasted against yellow, red,
and white arabesque tiles on the ancient walls. I was captivated
by the music of water from a splashing fountain that continued to
work despite an apparent lack of maintenance and an abundance of
tangled vines. I stopped, momentarily arrested by the rich aroma
of roasting lamb as if wafted through open windows. To the left
side, a spacious terrace extended the full length of the palazzo.
I walked forward, drawn to the blue infinity that stretched
beyond the geranium-lined balustrade. Below, fantastic rocks and
bright waters provided a backdrop that was equal to any of the
homoerotic photographs of Baron Wilhelm Von Gloeden. The
similarity between Trinita and Taormina, in Sicily, was
remarkable. The setting needed only a nude youth, casually
reclining against one of the huge terracotta vases to achieve
perfection. I spent several minutes engaged in a satisfying
fantasy, myself the photographer of a naked urchin against the
wall.

Although I did not know it at the time, I soon discovered
that sometime after the German occupation ended, the palazzo
became the Pensione Isola Rossa. The Pensione was a small family-
owned hotel that ought to be highly recommended to the tourist
who is willing to sacrifice convenience and a little comfort for
a picturesque setting and excellent food. It cannot be found in a
guidebook and its reputation existed by word of mouth. It is not
far from the Isola Rossa (the Red Island), hence the name. As I
was shortly to discover, I could see the monument of eroded rock
from my bedroom window.

I deposited my bags at the bar counter that doubled as a
check-in, and with difficulty endeavored to converse with the
proprietoress using my few dozen words of tourist Italian. She
was an attractive woman, although some fifty pounds overweight.
Her accent was not Sardinian, and after I had managed to get out
that I needed a room for two nights, with bath if possible, she
broke into a broad grin. "I do speak some English," she smiled.
"Only one room has its own bath, and that is already reserved for
this week."

"Oh!" I shrugged. "I'll take anything with a view then."

As I waited for her to study the book before her, I looked
around, and I remembered. There was another reason why I had come
to Trinita. Less than two weeks before his suicide, Bryce had
described the 'absolutely divine' boy he had met during a
vacation in Sardinia. Now, unless I was much mistaken, that boy's
photograph greeted me from across the bar counter. He was
everything the darling youngster Bryce described and more, much
more. Even though the photo had been taken when the lad was no
more than eight years old, his delightful features were already
formed. It seemed as if my brother knew my taste in boys almost
as well as I did, and I had never formally told him of my
'affliction' for prepubescent males. He had presumed that my
interests were no different to his own. I almost laughed aloud.

"The reservation you have, er, it wouldn't be for David
Gardner, would it by any chance?" I asked.

She smiled again. "I was wondering if you were Mr.
Gardner,... but the reservation is for a week. Do you plan to
stay for only two nights?"

I shrugged again as if there was no difference between two
nights and seven nights.

"Is it a problem?"

"Not at all. We have it cleared up, now, no! I'm Cecilia
Guarini, by the way," she added.

"I didn't make the reservation. My agent's secretary did.
I really don't know. I'll probably stay longer, maybe even for
more than the week."

"Yes, yes, now I remember speaking to her. Your secretary
is very nice, no? She sounds, ah, what is the word,... like the
English,... cultured."

I smiled and nodded, not willing to distinguish between
myself and my agent. "She takes good care of me."

"You are,... were a friend of Mr. Alison,... at least that
was what she told me." She paused again, her face showing
uncertainty. "I still can't believe he's morte,... that he's
dead."

I heard the finality. My brother was dead. I breathed out,
remembering him alive and still a teenager. For every night for
four years, he lay hot and naked in my arms, his thick erection
pressed hard against my belly. He had taught me how to make love
and how to be loved in return. I nodded, vaguely remembering
Bryce's hands grasping at my young body, his eyes sparkling when
he kneeled above me. His teenaged cock was often planted in the
very center of my being, and I was happier than I had ever been.

"Mr. Alison was here just last month," she reminisced in a
soft voice.

"Is he your son?" I asked, changing the subject to
something less painful while I continued to look at the
photograph. She seemed startled as she nodded slightly. "He's a
very handsome boy. You must be very proud of him."

She smiled, obviously appreciative of my interest.
"Riccardi,... he's a good boy, my Ricci," she admitted proudly.

I glanced away from the photograph, wanting to tell her
that Riccardi Guarini was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen.
I had seen a photograph of him before, several months before when
Bryce was still alive. Bryce's distant snapshots of the boy on
the wharf did not even begin to do him justice. He had a roguish
quality, yet he was very different to the other ragged street
urchins I had seen during my first day and a half in Sardinia.
While he possessed all the traits of a Mediterranean heritage, he
lacked their Spanish ancestry. Unlike the other dark-eyed, black-
haired boys, who were certainly charming in their own way, his
hair was russett-tinted and his liquid eyes were large and brown.
His tanned skin glowed with a healthy luster rather than an oily
sheen. However, it was his wide mouth and his full dark lips
begging to be kissed that held my interest the most. To say that
he was exceptionally beautiful was not an exaggeration. As an
American would say, he was gorgeous.

"You're not from Sardinia, are you?" I asked curiously as
I handed over my passport for the obligatory recording.

I saw a flicker of interest in her eyes and she continued
to study me with almost the same sense of critical appraisal that
I had displayed in her son. "We're from the Veneto, a little town
near Venice. My father bought the Pensione many years ago. I ran
it for him until he died. It has not been very profitable. Mr.
Alison became my partner recently. He took over the debts, and
provided enough for us to undertake some repairs," she said
simply. "I see you from New Zealand. You're certainly a long way
from home."

I had already seen two of my countrymen during the short
time I had been in Sardinia, and for a moment I thought about
telling her the standard New Zealand joke about the sign at the
Auckland Airport for 'the last person to leave to please turn out
the lights'. I suspected she would not appreciate the unique
Antipodean humor. Instead, I nodded.

"I travel a lot. In fact I haven't been home for years.
I'm a freelance photographer. My home is my suitcase most of the
time."

"A paparazzi?" she queried with a smile. "This far from
Porto Cervo? You won't find any glitterati here. Just hardworking
folk, mostly fishermen and farmers."

I shook my head. "I hope not. I don't do celebrities! I do
most of my work for travel books and magazines, and a few things
for commission when I need the money."

She completed her work with my passport and handed it
back. "Well, Mr. Gardner, I hope you're able to put Trinita on
the tourist map. Although I will miss the peace and quiet, it
will no doubt be good for business."

I pushed my wallet inside my travel bag. "From what I've
seen so far, this part of Sardinia is just waiting to be
discovered. It's picturesque," I said. Then thinking that she
either did not understand the word, or took my meaning to be
'quaint', continued quickly, "It's very beautiful, even if it is
a bit hard to get to."

My vague reference to the long slow bus ride along the
coast road produced a smile. She was an easy woman to like, even
if one was not inclined to form relationships with the opposite
sex.

"I'll take you up to your room now if you like. You can
leave your suitcase here," she instructed as she came out from
behind the counter. "Ricci will carry it up when he comes home
from school. He's usually back about this time."

I followed her through the restaurant, strangely finding
myself even more enamored of the curly haired boy who I knew only
from a few poorly composed photographs and Bryce's brief, yet
glowing description. The sun streamed in through the french
doors, splashing over red-brown tiles and white-painted tables
and chairs of simple farmhouse style, It was, despite its
simplicity, very elegant. The main staircase was barely wide
enough for two people and I followed behind her, catching
occassional glimpses of the rocky headland and the red granite
island sitting a hundred meters offshore. I realized that my
'picturesque' appreciation was a gross understatement of the
rugged cliffs, just as much as Bryce's description of Riccardi as
'very good looking'  failed to capture his exceptional beauty. As
I climbed the stairs I wondered whether Bryce had deliberated
misinformed me.

The room was bigger than I expected. The floor was tiled
with the same earthen-glazed tiles that seemed to predominate in
the establishment, but with the added comfort of a slightly
frayed woolen rug crafted by a local weaver. Two sets of french
doors opened onto a narrow balcony decorated with huge pots of
red geraniums similar to those on the terrace. There was a large
queen-sized bed with a dark wooden frame that had been
intricately carved by a long-dead craftsman, a small table and
two chairs, and a doorway that led to the shower and toilet.

"It's very nice," I said as I deposited my camera bag on
the table and turned to face the proprietress.

Cecilia smiled warmly. "Grazie!" She walked towards the
door, but stopped on the way as if she wanted to say something.
For several long seconds she looked at me, appraising me yet
again.

"I'm sure you are hungry, Mr. Gardner. My guests are
always hungry after the bus ride. As you said, Trinita is hard to
get to. There is a saying here, 'if it is easy to do, it has no
value.'"

I nodded as I looked beyond the windows. "Well, this view
alone was worth the trip. I think I'll be staying more than two
nights."

"Lunch will be served in a half hour, Mr. Gardner. There
will be lamb, and I am also cooking a special pasta dish. We may
see only a few tourists, but the restaurant is well known locally
for its regional specialties. Come down soon, or there will be
nothing left for you to eat."

I grinned. "I'm starving!"

"Good! Ricci will bring your suitcase up as soon as he
comes home."

She departed and I turned away to the open doors that
beckonned me into the brilliant light. I carried the workhorse of
my profession, a Hassleblad 500C and 80mm Planar lens. Several
steps brought me to the balcony and I stood there, inhaling the
sea-scented air. I could hear the sounds of waves washing against
the jumbled rocks hundreds of feet below. I was suddenly very
glad I had been a beneficiary of Bryce's last will and testament.
Even if I decided to sell my share of the Pensione, I had the
opportunity to relax for a few days before attending the
Sartiglia di Oristano. And then there was Riccardi.



 Chapter 2.



 He knocked softly, so quietly that I barely heard him. I
wound the film to the next frame while I walked back into the
room to open the door. He stood before me, breathing heavily,
leaning to his left side as he lugged my suitcase in his right
hand. He smiled. His doe eyes were magnetic, deep and sensuous.
My mouth was agape as I stood in silent awe of his delicate
beauty.

"Hi," I said in an effort to close my mouth and break the
barrier between us. "You must be Riccardi?"

"Everyone calls me Ricci. Even the guests." He grinned
breathlessly. "I have your bag, Mister Gart-na."

"So I see," I said with a smile. "My name is David
Gardner, but I'd much rather you called me David."

For a moment I thought about taking the suitcase from him,
if only to lighten his load. Then I realized that he was doing
'his' job and the last thing he needed from me was a bruised ego.
Whatever the appropriate tip was, I intended to double it. Not
taking the bag from him provided another advantage. It was a
great opportunity to invite him into my room for closer
observation. I moved to the side to allow him to enter. He
grinned again and braced himself to carry the suitcase a few more
feet.

I studied him from behind. It was a nice view. He had a
small bottom, perhaps uncomfortably, but for me enjoyably defined
by the crease in the rear of his khaki shorts. His long brown
legs were nicely shaped with lean muscles. His gym shoes were
without socks. With difficulty, he placed my suitcase on the bed
and turned to face me, still grinning.

"Mama said you were a close friend of Mister Alison?" he
asked in a charmingly still-unbroken voice that sounded more like
he was singing than talking..

"I'd say 'close friends' was an understatement. Bryce and
I have been friends since before you were born. How old are you
Ricci?" I asked.

"I turn ten next month."

I was ten years old when I lost my virginity to Bryce. He
was fourteen and much bigger than I was. He hurt me with his
clumsy over-eager thrusts. At least he had the sense to use
vaseline to ease the way into me. However, it was a temporary
pain that faded quickly as my bowels grew accustomed to his
thickness and length. His penis reached into my core and stirred
the life within me. Strangely, the discomfort had all but
disappeared by the next time I got into bed with him. Ricci was
nearly ten, and in all likelihood as capable of having sex as I
had been at the same age. It was an interesting thought as I
treasured his beaming face.

"So for a month you're still nine. That's rather young to
be working in a hotel! You're nine and you have a real job. I'm
impressed."

He grinned. "You're funny!"

"I think I've almost forgotten what it's like to have a
real job," I added. "I suppose I'll have to give you a tip now,
won't I?"

"It's not my real job. I help Mama when I'm not in school,
that's all," Ricci giggled. "You don't have to tip me."

His infectious laugh was like music to my ears and I
laughed with him. His teeth were perfect and as white as the
sheets on the bed. His eyes sparkled with merriment.

"Mama said that you can come down for lunch whenever
you're ready, Mister Gardner."

"You're supposed to call me David, remember?" I corrected
as I felt in my pocket for loose change.

He beamed. "If you're ready in a few minutes I can give
you a table on the terrace."

I was absorbed by him, an infatuation that seemed to grow
stronger with every second I watched him. I could think of no
reason to delay him longer, except one. "Can I take a photo of
you, Ricci?" I asked quickly. I heard the nervousness in my
voice, feeling a little like the first time I asked a girl for a
dance. After all, there was only a single time, and it was hard
to forget..

He hesitated, yet unwilling to leave. "I have to go. Mama
needs me to help her downstairs." He paused, still thinking. "And
after lunch I have to go back to school," he added awkwardly.

 Shyly he took the handful of coins I offered. A look of
surprise passed across his face. Holding several thousand lira,
he glanced down at his feet as if he was trying to avoid my eyes.

"Grazie, David," he murmurred appreciatively..

"Prego!" I returned.

He scampered out, almost running until I heard him reach
the stairs, and then silence. The room seemed very empty without
him. At one moment he appeared to like me, the next, he was
seemingly indifferent.

I followed him down to the restaurant, hoping that I would
have a chance to talk with him again before he went back to
school. With charming grace, he seated me at a table on the
terrace without saying more than two words. He was not
discourteous, merely professionally efficient in the role of
waiter. Clearly, the table had the best position of all and he
had held it back from the early patrons, most of whom were seated
close to geraniums beside the decrepid railing, a rusted steel
tube separating them from the precipice beyond the balcony. He
avoided my eyes when I ordered, leaving me with the impression
that he was sulking or reluctant to look at me for a reason I did
not understand.

He returned, poured a glass of Veraccia di Oristano, and
promptly left before I had a chance to taste it. It was slightly
aromatic and very dry. It was not bad, although reminiscent of a
Jerez Sherry. It was, however perfectly suited to Cecilia's pasta
alla bottarga, which was superb despite a slightly gritty after
taste from the tuna eggs. The main course selection was
considerably more difficult. I finally settled on the roast lamb
instead of aragosta agli agrumi (lobster with citrus), presuming
that the smell in the courtyard that had first greeted me was
worthy of further investigation.

After lunch I did not follow the traditional custom of an
afternoon siesta. Instead, I followed an inner sense, not caring
which way I went except to meander through the narrow streets and
alleyways that criss-crossed the village. There was a pattern, I
realized after I found myself in the main piazza for the third
time. There was one main street that zigzagged up the hill,
several smaller streets that branched off to the sides, and a
dozen alleyways that climbed from one level to the next in a
direct and very tiring route. The streets were quiet except for
the sounds of families in their apartments above the shops and
offices. Finally, in search of a place to sit and write down the
details of the dozen photographs I had taken, I headed down the
hill towards the sea. I stopped at an empty square overlooking
the rock-enclosed port. A path on the left seemed to lead away
from the beach and towards the cliffs. For a few seconds I
contemplated going to the beach. On another day I might have seen
some tourists or local people swimming, but not today. The air
was cold enough to make swimming unpleasant. I chose to walk
along the path that led towards the cliffs.

I watched the seagulls rising and falling in the wind
currents that rose from the sea. With a telephoto lens I might
have been able to get close enough and still have enough depth-
of-field to capture the dramatic outcrops of rock behind them. I
smiled, making a mental note to come better prepared the next
time. The path became narrower, at times threatening to disappear
all together in rubble. It became dark with shadow as the sun
passed behind the overhanging cliff. In the sunlight again, and
several hundred meters further on, I stopped, sensing that I was
not alone. The sound of waves breaking on the rocks had faded.
Even the lonely cries of the seagulls were distant. It was a
peaceful place where time seemed to stop.

Ricci was sitting on a rock, legs dangling and aimlessing
swinging. He appeared to be deep in thought. I studied him
closely, feeling a powerful attraction to him. In the space of a
few seconds, I sensed his innermost thoughts, overcoming the
thirty years that separated us. Like me he was lonely. I was
amused by the idea that he did not know I was watching him, like
a voyeur silently prying into his solitude. His hand was in his
lap and I presumed the source of his distraction was sexual in
nature despite his nine years. The casual yet repetitive up and
down movement of his arm confirmed that he was playing with
himself.

I grinned. 'Boys will be boys', I mused as I observed his
arm begin to stroke rhythmically, gratifying an inner need with
growing pleasure and suddenly faster strokes. The sun suddenly
became more intense, passing from behind a wispy cloud. The
moment was magical, a sacred memory of a fleeting boyhood,
innocence transcended by a self-centered pursuit that has existed
since the beginning of time. His pace undulated, slow and steady,
fast and wildly erratic, then exaggerated pumping as he peaked,
abandoned to the throes of immature ecstasy. He breathed heavily,
then groaned as if he experienced a momentary pain. His legs
tensed and I saw the long tendons behind his knees as he twitched
and quivered abruptly, and then his movement ceased. If he
ejaculated anything, I could not have seen it from where I stood.
>From his age alone I doubted whether he capable of even a few
milky drops, but Mediterranean boys seem to mature earlier than
boys from northern climates. Perhaps he had achieved more than an
emotional release.

A stray seagull screeched stridently as it flew behind me,
announcing its intrusion and interrupting the blissful quiet we
shared. And then he turned, instinctively warned of my presence.
His brow furrowed, his countenance darkening with the shame of
being discovered in his supposedly private pursuit.

"Hi!" I grinned. "I hope I didn't frighten you," I added
apologetically.

Riccardi scowled, visibly angry, but also nervous, as
nervous as any boy would be in his exposed position. As he
hurriedly rearranged the leg of his shorts I swallowed my self-
satisified smirk. I was almost as self-satisfied as the boy had
been a few seconds earlier.

"I'm sorry," I continued. "I know I should have gone away.
You looked so natural sitting there that I didn't want to
interrupt you. I hope you don't mind, Ricci."

Still, he said nothing. His eyes were downcast, his pride
like his boyish urge, shattered like the fractured rocks around
us. He sank into a yawning canyon of embarrassment.

"I didn't know you were there," Riccardi mumbled.

He stood up from his perch on the rock and for an instant
dropped his eyes to his crotch to see whether his clothing was
back in its proper place. He looked up again. His eyes met mine
briefly. He towered above me, like an exhibit in a gallery, or a
master above his servant. Perhaps it was merely my imagination,
but his eyes seemed to linger on my corresponding place. I
wondered whether he could see the thick shaft of my penis as it
snaked down the side of my jeans, not yet fully erect but
certainly well on its way.

"You were spying on me," he said bravely as he looked down
at me.

I smiled reassuringly. "I wasn't," I answered quickly. "At
least I didn't mean to spy. I watched you because,... well
because you were enjoying it so much and you looked so beautiful
sitting there."

Riccardi's lips compressed and his eyes narrowed
thoughtfully. He seemed to be wanting to say something, but could
not find the words to express himself. He glanced away, towards
the ocean. He jumped from the rock and landed lightly on his
feet. He was remarkably agile and he had the instinctive
responses of a highly intelligent child. I realized that I had
been able to approach without disturbing him only because he had
been so preoccupied at the time.

"You know, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Every boy
does it,... and men do it too, for that matter. I need to do it
sometimes myself." I said guilessly.

He smiled shyly. "You do it?" I returned his smile as I
nodded. "Mr. Alison said he wanked as well."

I grinned at Riccardi's use of an expression preferred by
generations of English school boys. It sounded a like something
Bryce might say with his public-school accent.

"I'm not surprised. It's the main reason why it's there,"
I joked. "Sure you can pee through it, but wanking it is a lot
more fun."

No longer afraid, Ricci's smile widened into a broad
boyish grin. "I have to go back to school, Mr. Gart-na."

He backed away a few paces, still grinning. As he turned
and started to run, I called after him. "It's okay to do it
whenever you want. It won't fall off, you know. At least mine
hasn't fallen off in thirty years!"



Chapter 3.



 I watched him as he jogged down the same path that I had
just walked. He had not gone more than a few paces before he
turned abruptly behind a large free-standing boulder. He
reappeared a few moments later some twenty feet higher and then
he disappeared from sight. Unless I was mistaken from the
position of the Isola Rosso, the Pensione bearing the same name
was directly above me, although set back and out of sight. The
boy had come down here to a very private place, for the very
private act of pleasuring himself before going back to school. I
sighed, remembering little of my own childhood except distant
memories of the many times I was alone with Bryce. They were
special times, treasured and unforgettable, enrichened by the
passage of thirty years. Momentarily I wondered whether Bryce had
come here with Ricci and witnessed the same ritual of a boy on
the way to growing up.

I suddenly realized that Bryce's last letter remained
unopened in my pocket. Hastily I pulled it out, creased and
smudged, the handwriting clearly distraught. It was addressed,
'For David. Not to be opened until you arrive at P. Isola.' I
eased my thumb-nail under the sealed flap and tore it open.
Inside was a single sheet of paper with a hastily handwritten
note.



"Dear David,



I regret that these are my last words to you. I will miss
you dearly. Do not think that I am blaming you, for my pathway
through life has always been my choice. However, David,
truthfully it is only because of you that I am wretched. There is
nothing worse than being a boy lover. I loved you long before we
actually made love, but doing it with you made me whole. I have
nothing but fond memories of the four years we were intimate.

 Some people may say what we did was immoral, or worse,
but I have never been as happy as when you slept in my arms,
except when my tool was in your bum, of course. That goes without
saying! You had the world's best arse, David.

The reason I have decided to take the final step is
because I have ruined my life. I have no other choice. If I live
and the truth comes out, I will hurt the people I love the most.
I cannot hurt my children. Hopefully, with my death the matter
will end.

David, I made a mistake. I downloaded some pornographic
pictures from the Internet. I guess, somewhere someone was
watching because a few days later I had a detective from the
Metropolitan Police at my door with a search warrant. He took my
laptop with him. I had at least a thousand pictures of young
boys, all of them pornographic, and the vast majority of them
were quite obscene. After he left, I knew there was only one
thing I could do. If you are reading this, then you must be at
Trinita. You always did what I asked, no matter what I asked of
you, David.

I was on hols the first time I visited Sardinia. It was
only by accident that I visited Trinita. My radiator burst. As
you know, I was never one for mechanical things. Anyway, I stayed
at the Isola Rosso while it was being fixed. There I met my
darling Ricci. Hopefully you too will have become acquainted with
my beautiful Ricci. I love him dearly, almost as much I loved you
when you were a boy. He is sweet and wonderful and just about
everything that a boy should be. Fortunately for me, I am certain
that he is also something that a boy should not be, in most
people's eyes if not mine. As you know I'm not one to bet, but
it's a good bet my Ricci is going to be gay! Indeed, I'm not sure
who came onto whom because we quickly became considerably more
than friends.

At the time, his mother, Cecilia Guarini needed fifty
thousand pounds to repay some debts and fix the Pensione's
leaking roof. I invested, not as much in the pensione, as in my
relationship with Ricci, which by the way was something that
Cecilia did not entriely disapprove of. She pretended to ignore
my closeness with her son at first, but when she realized that I
intended him no harm, she openly accepted our relationship. You
can imagine how surprised I was when she advocated that Ricci
share my bed the last night I was there. My share is now yours,
and I hope that you will discover the same advantages of
ownership as I did.

I loved you,

Your brother,

Bryce."



 I sighed loudly, now understanding much more than I
wanted to about Bryce's relationship with Ricci. Ricci was very
different to the pale-skinned English boys who had previously
captured my brother's attention. Unlike those pallid youths who
frequented the men's toilets in the Underground and London parks
with demands for money, brown-skinned Ricci radiated hot-blooded
sex. I understood why Bryce had become infatuated enough to
purchase a half-share of the Pensione.

I stared at the ocean, my mind in turmoil. I tried to
reason that Bryce had not done to Ricci those things he had done
to me. My sphincter tensed involuntarily in response to a
powerful memory of Bryce's fullness. I could remember his intense
heat boring a hole within me. Within minutes there was a shocking
feeling that I was unable to control my body's motions, later the
satisfaction of knowing his semen was inside me. Had Bryce done
the same things to Ricci?

I desperately wanted the startlingly handsome youngster to
be interested, yet still innocent. Yet, from the hints in the
letter and the opportunities inherent in a single night, I knew
the truth would probably be otherwise. Bryce's 'relationship'
with Ricci had become something that Cecilia no longer 'preferred
to ignore' but 'openly accepted'. I had no doubts that Bryce
loved him dearly, almost as much he loved me when I were a boy.
That could only mean one thing in the light of what followed in
the letter. 'A good shot Ricci is going to be gay!' That Ricci
was not even ten years old changed nothing as far as I was
concerned. At ten, I was a willing, if not equal participant in a
homosexual relationship. As far as I knew, beyond an occasionally
sore bottom I experienced no ill effects, with one possible
exception. I came to long for a boy who would love me. Although
Bryce was only four years older, he was as mature as some men in
their twenties. Sadly, as I matured, Bryce's passion slowly
faded. He was a boy lover. It was good while it lasted. By the
time I finished high school I had formed an overpowering
attraction to young boys and developed an appreciation of the
inherent possibilities in their relationships with older males.
Like my half-brother I had also become a boy lover.

Still thinking of the carefree boy sitting on the rock, I
closed my eyes and dreamed. Images of Ricci masturbating merged
with my own boyhood memories. I seldom masturbated by myself. It
was a lot more fun with Bryce. He seemed to know exactly what I
wanted even before I knew myself, and he was much better at it,
if only because his older hand was more practiced. I fantasized
about taking Ricci's penis in hand and giving him the same
experiences. A tiny stone hurtled over the cliff and bounced
before it skittered across the path a dozen meters away. I looked
up, but there was no sign of him. I turned to start the uphill
climb.

"Mister Gardner, you're back! I was beginning to wonder
where you'd gone to?" Cecilia smiled.

She was sitting at one of the tables beside the terrace
railing. She continued to peel the onion as I approached.

"I took a walk through the village," I answered as I
placed my camera on the table. "It's really beautiful."

"And I see you've found the way down to the beach,"
Celicia added. "It's still a bit too cold to go swimming. When we
get a few days of sunshine and the water is warmer,...."

I pulled a chair out from the next table and sat down.
Upon closer inspection I could see where Ricci got his good
looks. Cecilia was still a beautiful woman despite the passage of
years and hard work running the Pensione.

"Mister Alison used to go down to the beach often. He used
to say how pacifico,... what is the word,... how peaceful it
was."

"Cecilia, I have to tell you that Bryce was my brother," I
blurted out.

Cecilia smiled slightly. "I thought so. You're very much
like him. Ricci noticed it first."

I nodded. "He was happy here. He said Trinita was a very
special place. I think I'm beginning to understand why he loved
being here."

"Can you, Mister Gardner? I'm not sure even I do." She
hestitated for several seconds. "Ricci was very fond of him,...."
she murmurred. She glanced up and placed the onion on a scarred
wood cutting board. "Why did he kill himself?"

"Why?" I repeated. "It's a long story that began thirty
years ago,... it started when I was a boy about Ricci's age."

I avoided Cecilia as she studied me closely. When she
finally spoke her voice was barely more than a whisper. "I know
about Mister Alison," she said circumspectly, and then added,
"... and Ricci too, for that matter... What is the expression,...
I wasn't born yesterday."

"Yes?" I replied ambiguously.

"Some boys are,... I don't know how to put this,... They
prefer uomini, you know what I mean?"

"Men?"

She smiled gently. "Si. Perhaps it is because my Ricci
doesn't have a father?"

I shrugged. "Maybe, but I don't think so," I ventured. "I
think you're right when you said that some boys prefer men. I was
that way. Having a father around didn't make any difference. I
was born that way, I think."

Cecilia sighed. "I worry at first. Until Mister Alison
comes here, I worried a lot about Ricci.... Then when I realized
how happy Ricci is when he is with him,.... well it didn't seem
wrong any longer."

"You're making it sound as if Ricci and my brother were
more than friends," I suggested awkwardly.

"Friends? No! Not that! I always thought that Mister
Alison had much more than friendship on his mind, you
understand?"

I nodded slightly and waited for her to continue.

"I tried to believe that Ricci wasn't interested,... in
anything like that, but of course he was, needless to say."

"Oh!"

"Ricci's always been a very,... how do you say,... ah,...
affectionate boy."

"I think some boys are like that. I was about Ricci's age
when Bryce and I started," I said fondly.

"I wanted to believe Ricci was too young,... I mean I
thought boys weren't interested in sesso,... in sex, until,...
well until they were older," Cecilia added.

"You mean until they start puberty?" I queried.

She nodded. "Puberty? Oh puberta!"

I leaned back in my chair. I was slowly accepting that
although the discussion bordered on the surreal, the undeniable
fact was that she had apparently endorsed what had happened.

"Puberty and sex aren't necessarily the same thing. For
some men, boys who are sexually immature are actually more
desirable," I explained with a wry smile.

"So it isn't imparentato,... For the boy to be able to,...
do anything?" Cecilia asked awkwardly. "If he is omosessuale,
even better, no?"

I laughed. "I guess it depends on what you mean by
'anything'. A gay boy doesn't need to be capable of making
babies, if that's what you mean." She nodded. "I'm sure it
wouldn't bother Bryce that Ricci wasn't capable of ejaculation."

We sat quietly for a few moments. "But why did he kill
himself?" Cecilia persisted. "I'm so confused. I'm certain that
he loved Ricci. He was afflitto, very sad,... when I told him.
Ricci cries all night."

I sighed. "I don't know very much. Apparently the police
found some pictures," I said with deliberate vagueness.

"Photografia, you are saying? Of Ricci,... il coito
anale?"

I shook my head as I guessed the meaning of her words. Had
my brother done that? had Bryce had anal sex with Ricci?

"I don't think so. My brother was never very interested in
taking photos."

"Who then?" Cecilia asked quickly. "They were photographs
of boys weren't they? There were other boys besides my Ricci?"

I took a deep breath. "No,... I don't think so. At least
none in the last year or two that I know about. These were
pictures he found on the Internet and kept on a computer."

"A computer? My Ricci has a computer. Mister Alison bought
it for him. They send each other what it is called in Italian,...
posta elettronica,..."

"Email?"

"Si, yes! La comunicazione personale et omoerotico."

I shrugged. "I don't undertand," I answered.

"My Ricci does not tell me everything. Omoerotico, si?
L'attrazione sessuale verso il adulto," she said rapidly.

I grinned, understanding why she reverted to the language
familiar to her. It sounded as though Ricci and Bryce had
exchanged email concerning the nature of their relationship. She
seemed tio have no problems with that relationship being
homosexual.

"Il fanciullo sessuale," Cecilia smirked. "I'm sorry,
Mister Gardner. I try to speak English. My Ricci,... I know what
he is. Since he is a baby, I know. His body is the same as other
boys. Down there he is a boy, I know." She touched her forehead.
"But not his mind. There he is different,... not like a girl, you
understand,... but not like a boy either. He is between."

I regarded her quizzically and thought of the boy sitting
on the rock, his hand rubbing frenetically. Down there, he was
certainly all boy.

"I don't explain so good.... He prefers his own sex," she
said apologetically.

I nodded slightly. "Some boys are like that."

"It is better he does not know we talk," Cecilia said
absently. "Mister Alison understanded him.... He knew what my
Ricci wanted.... A man and a boy,... together, it's not wrong.
When they are the same,.... you realize love is right for them."

I nodded again. "I think my brother was very lucky to meet
Ricci," I ventured.

"Some things are better left alone. They go unnoticed if
attention is not drawn. In private,.... such things are not bad.
It is nature's way for them."

I turned and looked away. In her own way, Cecilia was
telling me that she had accepted Bryce's relationship with her
son. Perhaps she had even advocated that her son spend a night
with Bryce. I wished my parents had been as understanding. It
would have done a lot to alleviate my guilt. She continued to
speak and her words seemed to pass me by as I watched the
seagulls rising over the cliffs. Halfway to the horizon a fishing
boat was gliding across the oily water.

"Ricci's attrazione,.... verso Mister Alison,....
sessuale,....".

"Ricci's a beautiful boy," I mused softly as I tried to
understand the halting English that had suddenly become Italian.
again

I glanced back at Cecilia and she smiled gently. She was
telling me her son was sexually attracted to my older brother and
she was smiling about it? Or was she smiling at me for another
reason? I decided to test the waters cautiouslly.

"He's a very special boy," I added deliberately.

"Ricci is,.. yes, for the right man he is very special."

I surveyed the horizon vaguely looking for something to
focus on besides the present reality of the conversation. I
needed to distance myself. I felt I was being pulled into
msomething that I had no control over.

"Love is important," Cecilia said absently. "Always there
must be love. Without love, there is nothing before or
afterwards. We become animals."

I nodded. A solitary fishing boat had cleared the harbor
and was slowly chugging towards the pinnacle of rock of the Isola
Rossa. One day I would go there, I decided. For a moment I
fantasized, dreaming idle thoughts of being alone with Ricci.
There, between the two cliffs, I saw a tiny secluded beach. I
imagined swimming with Ricci, brown-skinned, naked, and
uninhibited. Later we would ascend into the chasm, and having
found privacy on a hidden rock ledge, we would kiss and touch.
When nothing remained untouched we would consumate our love. With
the love I wanted to share with him, I knew there would be
something before and afterwards. I would love him even when he
was no longer a boy.

"I loved my brother,... when I was younger,... not much
older than Ricci," I said hesitantly.

I stopped. Cecilia was the first person I had ever told
about my first love. I clenched my fist impotently. I had been
longing to tell someone for as long as I could remember, from the
very first time when I discovered what it felt like to have my
brother's penis in my bowels and know I was in love with him. Why
was I telling Cecilia? Why did I have this desire to have her
understand my feelings for her son? My feelings for her son? What
were my feelings for Ricci? I half-closed my eyes and blocked out
the Mediterranean glare.

"He loved you when you were a boy?"

I nodded and sighed fondly. "He was only a few years older
than me, four actually. You realize.... well, we were very close
for brothers. My mother,..." I paused and smiled. "It doesn't
really matter."

"Yes," Cecilia prompted.

I shrugged. "I used to wonder sometimes, whether she knew
about us,.. you know? She would look at me sometimes as if she
understood what I was feeling. In the morning, she'd always knock
loudly to get us out of bed, and she'd wait a while before she
came in."

I remembered the mornings as not being as good as the
nights. Morning passion was both sleepy and hurried. Although his
penis was very hard, his breath smelled stale. He still kissed
me, even when I turned my head into the pillow. If I tried, I
could still feel the wetness of his tongue on my cheeks, his
hands grasping my ankles, his penis pushing ever deeper. I looked
up suddenly.

Cecilia smiled, teasing me with impish delight. "And in
the morning young David and his older brother were still joined
together?"

"Sometimes. We'd usually do it at night, when everyone was
asleep," I admitted.

"So you also preferred an older lover it seems? It is
sometimes said that the best teachers are older," she added with
glee.

"At the time I did," I replied.

"You chnaged, Mr. Gardner?"

"Sometimes it's like that. My interests changed somewhat
when I got older."

"How?"

"I started to like boys too," I confided. "For a long
while I tried to convinve myself that my brother made me like
that. Now,... well I don't know what caused it. Maybe it's just
nature's way of balancing the sexes."

She raised an eyebrow as she said, "Then you like my
Ricci, yes?"

I felt my heart lurch. Her words hung between us. It was a
statement of undeniable fact. She knew I was attracted to her
son. I knew I was in love with a nine-nearly-ten-year-old boy,
the same boy my brother had been infatuated with. I wondered
whether Ricci knew how I felt about him.

"He's so,... He's just so young," I blurted out.

Cecilia shrugged. "His age? Is it all that important? Must
he be older? I think it enough that he has the desire to make
love. Must he be older to be sessuale."

"I think the word is mature," I said, wondering whether
sexuality and maturity were necessarily correlated.

Cecilia smiled. "Yes. Must he have hair on his penis
before he can know what love is?" I met her eyes silently, unable
to answer. "Do you have to taste his,... what is it called in
English, his sperma?"

I swallowed, unable to stop myself from answering. "It's
semen. No, it's not that."

"Then what? How old must a boy before he is able to have
sex, Mister Gardner? A teenager? When he has almost grown into a
man? Do you really believe that a boy cannot love a man until he
is no longer a boy?"

"Perhaps," I answered cautiously. "When he's a teenager
it's different."

"Ricci will be a teenager at thirteen. That's only a few
years away. Three years!"

"I know!"

"Yes, but then, would you not say that thirteen is too
young for him?"

"We both know it isn't a matter of how old he is," I said
flatly.

Celcilia smiled. She had won, yet neither of us
acknowledged her victory. I could not deny what I had not said,
for I believe Ricci to be as capable of loving as I had been at
his age. All it took was the right opportunity to come along and
human nature took over. A gentle breeze rose up the cliffs and
stirred the geraniums to rustle. The heat, the smell, the
solitude, the beauty of the rugged landscape, the thought of
making love to a perfect boy, all of it was intoxicating. I
needed to escape, to wander in my own fantasies and dream of
Ricci held tightly in my arms, his lips pressed against mine. I
stood up to leave and go about my business.

"Just remember what I say today," Cecilia said slowly. "I
know my son. Ricci needs a man's company to be whole,.... and I
want him to be whole, David."

I turned away, took a single step and turned back to face
her. She looked at me quizzically, without condemnation. For
almost all of my life I had lived with the threat of discovery.
Now exposed for the boylover I was, I had no where to go and no
one to turn to. Suddenly I felt lost. Cecilia smiled
reassuringly.

"Ricci will be home again by four. Often he goes down to
the beach when he gets back from school," she said meaningfully.



 Chapter 4.



 He was prompt, appearing exactly when the minute hand of
my watch completed its cycle. I heard the stones clattering as he
walked across the shingled beach and turned around from my
inspection of the azure horizon. Ricci smiled and waved casually.
He had changed his clothes since the last time I had seen him. He
was dressed in a striped tee-shirt that was a little too small
for him and what I presumed to be white soccer shorts. His feet
were in canvas shoes pockmarked with holes. I watched, silently
admiring his lithe form as he ambled across the beach to join me.

I tried to remember my Italian, what little I knew was
chaotically swirling through my head. Mostly I remembered the
name of a boy-magazine Bryce had once shown me. 'Piccolo'! Rikki
reminded me of one of the boys who had been featured in various
seductive poses on a two-page spread.

"Bon Giorno," Ricci said with a broad friendly grin.

"Hi!"

I gazed at him, appreciative of his beauty, the same
beauty that had lured, and then ensnared my brother. A man could
ask for nothing more, I thought to myself. He was perfect in
every way. His hair was tousled and moistened with sweat so that
long darkened strands clung to his forehead. His white teeth
flashed as he smiled, an eyebrow lifted up. Thoughtful like his
mother, the unspoken question, an observation not expressed, his
mind churning until he reached an understanding within himself. I
wanted to tell him he was the most beautiful person I had ever
seen.

"How was school?" I blurted out.

He shrugged. "Okay!"

'How's your penis?' I thought in silent jest. The image of
him masturbating had been with me all afternoon, no matter how
much I had tried to avoid it. Now it dominated my thoughts. I
desperately wanted to steer to the conversation back to what I
had seen earlier in the day.

"I'm sorry about what happened earlier," I muttered self-
consciously. "I didn't mean to,... well,..."

"You surprised me!" he said indignantly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you. I guess a boy
needs some privacy at times," I added lightly.

Ricci grinned. "Sometimes,... but not all the time. It's
fun to share some things too," he added.

"You sound like you enjoy sharing things," I teased. "Did
you share a lot of things with Bryce?"

I regreted the words as soon as I uttered them. I intended
only to chide him with my jealousy, and I had no idea that he
would respond the way he did.

"I hate you! You're mean about it too, just like he was!"
he retorted hotly.

"I'm sorry," I said apologetically. "I didn't mean to say
anything to upset you."

"Then you're stupid and dumb."

"I'm sorry," I repeated. I wondered what I said that
offended him. "You're right, I was stupid to say that."

Ricci shrugged and turned away. "It's none of your
business what I did with him," he chided angrily.

The wind ruffled his curling hair. I breathed out, wishing
I had the foresight to bring a camera. However, he was beautiful
in a way that a mere photograph could never capture. A still
image could never possess the same energetic life. I smiled
admiringly. He was slender with a graceful body that seemed to be
almost cat-like. For a moment my eyes lingered on his buttocks.
Unlike most boys, his waist was tapered, and his narrow pelvis
exaggerated the mounds of his cheeks. My thoughts turned to lust,
and I wondered again how far Bryce had gone with him. His
reaction could mean nothing, or everything.

"Do you miss him terribly?" I asked gently.

Ricci nodded, but did not turn around.

"I do," I said sadly. "It's hard to believe I won't see
him again."

Ricci nodded again. His shoulders seemed to shake, and
then he sniffed. He was crying.

"Why?"

"Why did he die?" I asked gently.

Another nod. I breathed out and shook my head. It was both
hard and easy to understand his suicide. He was ashamed. While it
was unlikely that he would have been sentenced to Her Majesty's
Prison, there would have been public humiliation. I rubbed my
chin.

"He was,... I don't know,... He was living two lives,
Ricci. He had a wife and family,... and he also loved boys. He
was afraid people would find out."

"Is it so bad?"

"Loving boys?" I asked.

He nodded slightly. I wanted to say 'no'. A boy like Ricci
needed to be loved by a man. Even his own mother accepted that a
man was integral to her son's sexuality and his future happiness.
To me, it seemed entirely appropriate. Indeed, it could even be
argued to be the result of biological forces and essential to
Darwin's theory of natural selection. After all, more males were
born than females.

"It depends," I answered. "In England it's against the
law. In fact, it's against the law in most places."

"Then it's wrong?"

"Maybe,... I don't know. If the boy is willing,... maybe
it's not all that wrong. Maybe the laws are wrong."

Ricci was silent while he stared towards the horizon. It
was not hard to imagine what had happened between him and Bryce.
It would be the same as it had been for me. For a young boy like
Ricci, it would have started as barely realized yet powerful
attraction, a need to find completion rather than sexual
gratification. Perhaps he had even experimented with boys his own
age, but with Bryce's company came something else. There was
satisfaction to a inner craving. Quickly friendship developed,
evolving and adapting to their individual needs. Eventually,
perhaps even over a period of just a few days, the relationship
became physical. Perhaps it started as a playful hug, a wrestling
match, a back-rub, holding hands. Before long, however, Bryce's
hands wandered and touched places that society believed were
forbidden places. Then it was impossible for either of them to
stop, and sexual attraction blossomed. What folowed was entirely
natural, although some would argue that it was unnatural and
obscene. Ricci turned back to face me, his dark eyes appraising
me. He was close to tears. His small hand wiped across his eyes
and he smiled weakly.

"He loved me," he murmurred.

"I know. He loved me too when I was a boy about your age.
It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed. I loved him back."

"So did I," I admitted.

"Mr. Alison fucked you in the bum, didn't he?"

I swallowed my surprise. Bluntness was one of many of
Ricci's characteristics I could easily come to love, although his
sudden candidness could be unsettling..

"Ah,... yes,... ah,... we did that sometimes."

Ricci giggled. "You liked it too!"

 I laughed. "You can tell?"

He nodded noncommitantly. "Mr. Alison said it's nice after
a while,... when it stops hurting."

I wanted to ask the necessary question. Instead, I bit my
lip and suppressed my curiosity. In time, I would learn if he was
still a virgin. It seemed unlikely given his appreciation of the
pain associated with anal intercourse.

"It's okay," I ventured vaguely. "Do you miss him a lot?"
I asked gently.

Ricci nodded again, seemingly not put off by my change of
topic. "He was good to me. It's nice when someone likes you a
lot."

"I like you," I blurted out with more passion than I
intended.

"I know," Ricci grinned suddenly. "Is it just okay?"

"Is what okay? Oh, that! Hm,..... What do you think?"

"I know it hurts at first because it's tight there."

I raised an eyebrow. "How do you know it hurts? You
haven't done it, have you?" I teased.

He returned my glance with a gaze of such intensity that I
was taken back, contritely aware that I had gone too far.
Clearly, Ricci was not about to breach the special trust that
exists between a man and a boy when intimacy developed. His
silence was neither affirmation or denial, merely confirmation
that he knew enough about anal sex to realize that there was some
pain associated with it.

"It's really not that bad if you're careful. The main
thing is to be patient," I added, ever the voice of experience.

A few seconds ticked past. The silence was broken by a
gull's loud screech as it rose to defend a nesting spot on the
cliff behind us.

"He said you were a really good photographer," Ricci said
demurrely.

"Huh?" I asked distractedly.

"Your photos are famous!" Ricci exclaimed proudly.

"My what? Oh, that! Bryce tends to exaggerate. I have a
few pictures in galleries in New York and London," I replied. "My
work is,... well it's okay,... it's just,... well it's not
great."

"He showed me a book all about you."

"Bryce showed you that," I chuckled. "I didn't know he had
a copy."

"The photos were incredible. I felt like I was there
looking at the places."

I smiled. "That was what I tried to do. It's a matter of
composition as much as anything else."

"Do you make a lot of money?" Ricci asked.

"Not a lot, but I make enough to get by. Money isn't all
that important to me."

"You're not at all like Mr. Alison, then," Ricci said
flatly.

I smiled. I wonder how Ricci had managed to derive that
impression. It was accurate, of course. Bryce was a materialist.
He was wealthy and he wanted the world to know it. He bought
whatever he wanted, and even things he didn't want. Sometimes it
was a matter of conspicuous consumption. Spending money like
there was an inexhaustible supply of it was his way of showing
the world that he was very successful. Still, his wealth had
brought me a treasure in the beautiful boy who now stood before
me. I studied him with a growing realization that the nature of
my affliction was something that could easily change my life.
Ricci's head was crowned with mahogany curls that shimmered in
the faint breeze. His eyebrows were invisibly thin, his large
eyes darkly sensuous. His lips were full and scarlet, and shaped
for the promise of heartbreaking passion. When he swallowed, the
tiny, barely formed Adam's apple in his slender neck jerked, and
all I could think of was how wonderful the inside of his mouth
would feel against my tongue, perhaps even my penis. Each time he
breathed, the nostrils of his pert small nose flared slightly.
When he blinked, his eyelids fluttered. I was hopelessly in love.

"Do you always take pictures of places?" he inquired.

"Huh?"

"In the book, all the photos are of places. There aren't
any of people."

"You're very observant. I wanted it that way. You see,
some of places are usually crowded. In fact I had to work hard to
make them look empty."

"Why?"

"Because that's how I wanted them to look. I wanted them
empty of people. I wanted to capture the atmosphere of
loneliness."

"I asked him whether you liked people."

"Asked who?"

"Mr. Alison, of course. He said you were always a bit
strange."

I laughed. "That sounds like something Bryce would say. I
do like people, Ricci. Especially boys like you," I added without
thinking.

"I know that," Ricci smiled. "I think it's because you're
a lot like him in some ways."

"Does that bother you?" I asked quickly, guiltily.

"That you like boys,... or the other part of it?" Ricci
hinted.

"Either," I answered quickly and I wondered what he
intended by 'the other part of it'. I considered asking him, but
the possibility existed that he would say something that I did
not want to hear, or that he thought I was invading his privacy
again.

"I want you to like me,"  he said softly.

I looked at him immediately and he smiled shyly.d I
realized that his smile was his way of acknowledging a need that
he did not dare to say aloud. Try as I could, I could not help
myself from asking the next question.

"And the other part of it?" I asked gently. "You mean
having sex, don't you?"

"Having sex,... yes? And you?"

"If it's with a boy like you? Yes, I want that too, of
course."

"That's good!" Ricci said ambiguously.

"Why?"

"Because I like you. And it's more fun with a man. It was
only fun with Mr. Alison because I liked him," he added shyly.

I nodded, presuming that the basis for comparison
consisted of boys his own age, rather than girls. However, his
openness bothered me. I understood what he was going through. It
was instinctive. Any and all words of caution were wasted when a
boy like Ricci felt the irresistible urges for the first time. At
the same age, I had been no different. I wanted to be loved by a
man, and by virtue of both convenience and brotherly affection,
Bryce was an appropriate substitute for the man I could not have.
Still, guiltily aware of society's condemnation of boylovers, I
needed to change the topic.

Less than a minute later, we were following the path
towards the village and talking about soccer and which team would
win the World Cup. I learned a lot about my young friend during
that first half-hour. He played goalie on his school team and
they had yet to lose a match during the season! His favorite
sherbet flavor was rasberry! He had his appendix out just after
Bryce left the last time. His best subject in school was
geography. And more.

 In the piazza, we stopped for Spumoni at the Bar Chieste.
Not for the first time, I was fascinated by Ricci's outgoing
friendliness. Certainly, in a small village like Trinita
d'Agultu, he had probably known the owner, Signor Candolini all
his life. The man's gentle smile and open enjoyment at meeting
Ricci and his new 'friend' should have been sufficient to provoke
instant suspicion. Much to my chagrin, Ricci exhibited a degree
of enthusiasm in my company that was unsettling. I felt
uncomfortable, not only because Ricci was openly flirting with
me, but because Serge Candolini regarded me with an expression
akin to affection. I had the distinct impression that we were
kindred souls.

 Afterwards, we ambled down to the harbor, and licked
dribbling ice-cream from cones. We watched seagulls pecking at
the remains of the day's catch that had not been worthwhile
taking to the morning market. I talked about travelling around
the world, about photographing ancient ruins in Turkey, about a
recent assignment for a fashion magazine in New York that had me
surrounded by beautiful women for a week. We looked at each other
longer and more often than was necessary. Again and again I found
myself wanting to hold his small brown hand in mine and daring
myself to lean forward and kiss his perfectly shaped lips.

 Finally, when I turned to Ricci, and found him gazing at
me with devoted interest, I knew we were in love. I half closed
my eyes, absorbing the sun's warmth and dreaming of touching him
in special places while I wondered how Bryce had been with him.
During the last few years, Bryce had become cold and aloof with
me. It was almost as if he was stained by the memory of our
earlier relationship, of the innate satisfaction from our
physical union. He had been very caring when I was a boy, and I
knew that he had been no different with Ricci. Of course, it was
impossible to be otherwise with Ricci, who was warm-blooded and
alive, and burned with the passion of youth.

Even the slightest hint of a smile was enough to melt my
heart. There were numerous times I wanted to hug Ricci and tell
him how much I loved him, but always words failed me. He seemed
too precious to touch in even the slightest way. Yet, I knew that
Bryce had done far more than merely touch him. Images flitted
though my head, long put-aside but never forgotten thoughts of
Bryce's tumescent penis wavering before my eyes, the gaping
crimson slit in his glans oozing silvery fluid. I remembered its
warmth and power, and like an acolyte subordinated before a
priest, I took communion with my first tangy kiss of pre-seminal
fluid.

Although we were sitting only centimeters apart, and we
were talking like two lifelong friends, I wondered whether Ricci
has experienced the same taste. It felt like a yawning chasm
still existed between us. It was as if any greater intimacy could
destroy what we shared. I shuddered involuntarily when I thought
of Ricci performing the same act of devotion on me. I wanted him
to love me first.

It was only when we stood up to make our way back up the
hill to the Pensione Isola Rossa did the barrier between us
yield. With barely any hesitation, Ricci's thin fingers slipped
between and linked with mine. We were holding hands. He smiled
with vague amusement at my surprise.

"Ah,... aren't you afraid someone will see us?" I asked
uncertainly.

Ricci shrugged without showing concern. "In Italy,
everyone holds hands. It doesn't matter if they see you own me."

"Own you? I don't own you. No one owns you."

His eyes met mine as he looked up. For a second I saw the
hurt that comes with rejection.

"I don't mean own like a slave. It's the wrong word. I
want people to know you're my friend. I belong to you now," he
said with possessive defiance.

I grinned. "Okay."

"It is good to show it."

"That was what you were doing in the place we got the ice
creams, wasn't it? You wanted to show him? You wanted Signor
Candolini to know we were,... friends."

Ricci nodded eagerly. "It doesn't matter if we hold hands.
You English are so funny. No one cares."

"It's just,... well I feel strange holding your hand," I
explained.

The fact was that touching Ricci, even in this innocent
way, was difficult to deal with. A warm glow coursed through my
body. I could feel my heart beating hard and fast. I trembled
with the mere knowledge that his hand was clasping mine and that
it felt very good indeed. If was several minutes later before
Ricci spoke.

"If it embarrasses you, I'm sorry. It's only to show
you're mine."

"It's okay," I muttered selfconsciously.

Ricci made everything sound so easy. Life was simple for
him. He felt an attraction so he showed affection. He was proud,
and compared to me, shameless. Or perhaps he was so innocent that
holding hands was nothing more than a sign of friendship. Yet, I
could discern an awkwardness in his voice that suggested he was
as nervous as I was.

"Signor Candolini, he knows everything that happens in
Trinita. He's very smart. When we spoke Italian, he asked how
much I liked you," Ricci teased. "He asked whether I liked you
enough to hold hands."

"You don't care what people think?" I asked uncertainly as
we started up the cobblestone road that lead into the main
piazza.

"You don't think it's bad, do you?"

"Holding hands is not a bad thing. However, people talk,
Ricci." I sighed.

It was difficult to know what to say to a nine-nearly-ten-
year-old boy. I breathed out slowly. His moist hand felt very
small enclosed in my sweaty palm.

"So!"Ricci answered defiantly. "Are you ashamed of me?"

 "Heaven's no! You're,.... you're,... you're everything I
ever dreamed about,... and more. Ricci, I can't find the words I
need to say it," I gushed effusively.

"You're funny," Ricci giggled. "I think you're not like
Bryce at all."

He left me agape and wondering what on earth he intended
as we turned the corner and entered the piazza. Most of the shops
had reopened for the evening business and already several groups
of men and women had gathered in shaded areas. A few yards away a
solitary woman cradled a baby, crooning to it with indistinct
words of endearment. Her glance passed us by even as her hand
raised in a gesture of recognition to the boy who walked beside
me.

"Ah, Riccardi Guarini. Bon Giorno," she said absently. Her
fingertips caressed the baby's cheek while she studied me at
length. "How is my darling Ricci today? Now that you have a new
friend I hope will you smile again for me," she added in heavily
accented English.

Ricci smiled gleefully and eased closer to me until I
could feel his bony frame against me. He turned slightly to look
up at me.

"This is Lucia,... my godmother," he explained. "She
brought me into this world and helped my mother take care of me
until I was six or seven."

"Only yesterday Father Pietro was asking about you."

"Oh!" Ricci said dryly.

"He has not seen you in Church for a long while," Lucia
commented.

"I,... I don't want to go," Ricci said nervously.

I heard coldness in his voice and felt him press harder
against me. The chill seemed to seep into me. She glanced down at
the baby in her lap. After a few seconds of thought she looked up
again.

"Sergio tells me you are with an Englishman. It is good
that you are happy again." Ricci grinned, tightening his hand on
mine. "But you should not be at work with your mama, Ricci,"
Lucia laughed, "Instead of walking with your new friend."

"His name is David," Ricci replied. "Mama said I didn't
have to be back before six o'clock."

 A quick turn of his tousled head towards the village
church confirmed his peripheral vision. "Anyway, we're going home
right now. Ciao Lucia," he added with a sweetness that seemed
unnecessary except to overcome his brusque dismissal.

 He led the way through the piazza, walking at a brisk
pace and averting his eyes from the black-robed man who had just
appeared at the left-side portal of the church. Although there
was nothing in the man's appearance or posture to the contrary, a
sixth sense warned me that Ricci wanted to avoid him at all
costs. This was a man who was not liked by the otherwise outgoing
boy.

 All the way back to the Pensione, Ricci was very quiet,
almost taciturn. He disappeared the instant we passed through the
wrought-iron gateway, making his way towards the kitchen. Through
the window in the foyer I could see that there were at least a
dozen people sitting around three of four tables. Despite what I
wanted, it was time for Ricci to go to work.

Instead of going up to my room, I ambled out to the
terrace and returned to the same place where I had enjoyed lunch.
I felt the late afternoon sun's warmth on the nape of my neck and
the fresh sea air on my face. To the side of the Pensione, I
watched an elderly man tending grape vines that were scattered
among rows and rows of dark green olive trees. I made a mental
note to go that direction the next day. The old man's wrinkled
skin and peasant clothing were a compelling image.

 I felt very alive. I half-closed my eyes and allowed my
thoughts to drift. I knew I would remember that afternoon as one
of the best times, perhaps the best time, of my life. I also knew
that my newly found happiness was only because I had become
acquainted with a nearly ten-year-old boy named Riccardi Guarini.
I sighed, recognizing that 'acquainted' did not even begin to
address the depth of my feeling. I was obsessed, and yes, I was
in love.



 Chapter 5.



 The glass of Campari and plate of antipasta seemed to
appear out of thin air. It was only when I turned fully in my
seat and looked over my shoulder did I see Ricci standing behind
me. He smiled shyly. He was dressed in a waiter's outfit with a
white shirt with starch-pressed sleeves, black trousers, and
shiny black shoes. His hair was brushed and it shone with
iridescent strands. He looked very handsome. He smiled slightly,
just enough to dimple his smooth cheeks and flash perfect white
teeth. I felt my heart lurch and I had to make myself breath
deeply several times before I was able to speak.

"You're beautiful," I blurted out much louder than I
intended..

Ricci's instant smile grew noticeably bigger, matching a
similar instant growth in my groin. He also seemed to be lost for
words, although he had worn me out during the afternoon as he
peppered me with endless questions about the world beyond
Sardinia.

"Grazie, Ricci," I muttered.

"Prego!" He winked mischievously. "Mama said I should take
special care of you tonight."

"Oh!" I realized my mouth was agape, wondering whether
'special care' was intended to mean what I so desperately wanted
it to mean. "Grazie, Ricci," I repeated.

I breathed out and watched him back away, reflecting that
he was surely the most perfect creature on the face of the Earth,
and marvelling at how anyone could be so good-looking as to take
a person's breath away. When I managed to inhale again, the air
was scented and pure. It was fresh and clean, and perfumed by the
nearby geraniums. I fancied it was also Ricci's vibrant smell,
and like him, it was potent with life. In his presence, I felt
invigorated, as if the energy of the sun flowed directly from him
into me.

I tasted Campari for the first time. It was not
unpleasant. I half-closed my eyes, musing, feeling a warm glow on
my face. At that moment, it was very easy to imagine spending the
rest of my life in Trinita, even easy if I was somehow able to
share it with Ricci.

"Riccardi Guarini," I thought to myself. "Guarini, or
Gardner,..." I traced the initials, 'R. G.' on the table cloth.
"It could be either." Sharing the initials of our surnames was
almost like we were meant to be together. I traced my first
initial, incorporating his 'R' with my 'D' so we shared the same
'G'. I drew a heart around it, musing that I could adopt him. I
thought. "He could be my son. Well, maybe not exactly because
that would mean I had sex with a woman."

I grinned and sipped the Campari. Given a choice I would
by far have preferred a glass of the local wine, an excellent
full-bodied red. However, Ricci had brought the drink to me, and
I would finish it to the last drop. Again I sipped, still
thinking about the afternoon I had spent with Ricci.

His laugh was infectious, but it was a nice disease to
catch. It usually started with a slight smile, a cautious twinkle
in his eyes, and then music unequalled when the sound of laughter
spilled from his lips. I sighed longingly. When he smiled, he
made my heart beat faster. At times he teased me in his uncertain
English, tried to teach me Italian and gave up with each
mispronunciation, only to try again and the earliest opportunity.
He was playful and serious, shy and uninhibited. I was in love.
Or was I merely enamored of a beautiful young boy. Just as my
half-brother had been infatuated, was I similarly afflicted.

 Suddenly, I had an overpowering desire to give Ricci
something to remember the the afternoon he spent with me. It had
been the best day of my life, without question. I stood up
hurriedly and glanced around. Already about half the tables were
filled. I placed my seat at an angle, identifying possession of
the table hopefully for long enough for me to return. I walked
across the stone-paved terrace at a pace that was close to a
trot, through the Pensione, into the court, beyond the wrought
iron gates, out into the streets of Trinita. There was a shop on
the corner not more than a hundred yards away. I remembered
seeing some postcards in the front window. Perhaps they had
something inside that would be a suitable present for a ten-year-
old boy. If not, I was not sure where I would go.

"Bon giorno," I said politely.

I hastily stepped across the scalloped threshold and into
the cool air of the store. The old woman was dressed entirely in
black linen, her white-grey hair pulld into a tight bun. She
smiled.

"Bon giorno. Tourista yes? Posta-carda? Offa Trinita?"

I shook my head quickly. I needed something special for
Ricci, yet everything I saw was common, for household use or the
tourist market. Nothing caught my attention, nothing that is
until I turned to leave. There were two necklaces hanging on a
stand that sat on the far corner of the counter. They were made
of coral or shell, mostly pink, but interspersed with spots of
color, blue, white, even yellow. I pointed.

"Cinque-cento lira," the old woman said to my unanswered
question.

"Yes! Grazie! Both of them. I'll take both."

"Not for wife or daughter. For girlfriend?" she asked.

I shook my head abruptly and passed over a ten-thousand
lire note. A little rudely, I grabbed the handfull of change and
hurried out. In my head, I did the calculation. A thousand lira
was worth about half a dollar U.S. Fifty cents! I told myself as
I hurried back to the Pensione that it wasn't the cost that
mattered, but the thought. Still, I worried that Ricci would be
insulted by my tokan of affection. However, I need not have
worried.

He returned to the table carrying a plate of antipasta.
Unlike the vegetarian concoction that is served in 'Italian'
restaurants, around the world, true anntipasta is a gastronomic
sampling of many foods from the region. There were cheeses of a
half-dozen varieties, as many types of salami, olives, and
assorted pickles. There were small finger-sized pasties of meat
and fish, rounded balls whose origin I did not dare to guess at.
Ricci served me, standing to the side, with a satisfied smile as
I tasted a few of the treats and complimented the chef, who also
happened to be his mother. In any city in the U.S., her cooking
would be accorded five stars, but here in the small Sardinian
village, it went unrecognized except by the local people and a
few tourists adventuresome enough to leave the resorts and
primary attractions on the east coast.

It was only when Ricci started to leave did I beckon him
closer.

"This is for you, Ricci," I said softly. "I know it's not
much."

He grinned wickedly. "It's very beautiful, David. It's for
a girl you know. Boys give them to their girlfriends."

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry. I,... Well I didn't know that. Of
course, you don't have to wear it then," I said apologetically.

He winked teasingly. "If I wear do it, it's only because
I'm your boy-friend."

The inflection on the last two words made me catch my
breath. He intended the emphasis to sound exactly the way I heard
it. 'Boy-friend' had the same meaning to both of us.

"I like you Ricci. You're very special to me. I want you
to know that."

"Special?" Ricci asked shyly. He glanced quickly over his
shoulder. "I have to go. People are waiting for me."

He turned and walked quickly away, his fingers
possessively clasping the two strands of pink-colored beads.

For the rest of the night, I watched Ricci. He worked
efficiently, always with a smile on his face whether carrying
large trays heaped with food, or wiping tables clean. Perhaps it
was my imagination, but every time I glanced at him, it seemed
that he was looking at me. It was a wonder other people didn't
notice. When he brought my main course, he stooped low. In the
now-open 'v' of his unbuttoned starched white shirt I saw the two
colorful strands I had given to him. Against his darkly tanned
neck, the necklaces were very visible. He was showing off. I
smiled and gently touched his nearest hand. At the table next to
mine, someone laughed. Ricci's dark eyes flickered, and then he
quickly backed away, a hint of a blush descending on his face. I
had managed to embarass him.

He worked until ten o'clock and then he suddenly
disappeared. By then, most of the tables were empty and I had
finished the entire bottle of red wine and several cups of richly
flavored coffee. I waited for several minutes before I finally
stood up, ready to return to my room. I was perturbed by the fact
that Ricci had not come back to my table to say goodnight,
although he had glanced in my direction several times before he
pulled his disappearing trick.

"Meester Gart-ner?"

I turned around quickly. It was a man, the same man who I
had seen on the church steps in the village piazza, except that
this time he was not attired in a cleric's black robes. Close up,
for he stood only a matter of two or three yards away, I guessed
his age to be in the early forties, but he could have been
younger or older.

"Yes?"

"Can we speak?"

"Uh, yes, I suppose so," I said uncertainly. "I'm sort of
at a disadvantage."

"Because I know who you are, and you do not know me?" he
asked. I nodded. "Did Ricci not tell you about me?"

"Uh,... not really. You're the priest I saw earlier today.
In the piazza. Father,..."

"Pietro," he finished. "I have known Ricci since he was a
little boy."

Again I nodded, increasingly aware that I did not trust
this man. In that, I seemed to share Ricci's dislike. Slowly I
resumed my seat, swilling the last half of my unfinished coffee.
He gestured with his slender hand, offering to sit with me and I
nodded again. He pushed one chair back towards the railing and
sat down. The sea and the rugged landscape threatened to distract
me, yet I intentionally met his eyes.

"Mr. Gar-tner,... Ricci is not for you," he said softly.
"He is not the kind of boy to go with tourists. There are other
boys here. If you wish, I will point them out to you.
Perhaps,..."

"Perhaps it's none of your business," I interrupted. I
breathed out slowly. "What Ricci wants and does is no one's
business except his, and perhaps his mother's."

"Ah, Cecilia Guarini. She's a good woman and an excellent
cook too. It's a pity she doesn't marry. It's not right, a boy
like Ricci growing up without a father."

I interlocked my fingers and stared at him. albeit
pleasantly. "You're right, it's not," I said after a long pause.

Father Pietro smiled and looked thoughtful. "You know,
Sardinia is very different to where you come from, Mr. Gart-ner.
Here, we are very understanding when a boy is,... well let us say
he is different from other boys."

"That's funny coming from a Catholic priest," I said
caustically. I knew exactly what difference the priest was
talking about.

He smiled again. "Ricci belongs here, with a man from
Trinita if he choses, Mr. Gart-ner," he said slowly. "Not with a
tourist!"

"You know,..." I smiled as I hesitated. "If Ricci's gay,
and he really wants a man, I think he's perfectly capable of
choosing who he wants."

Father Pietro stood up slowly. He inclined his head and
slowly backed away until a table came between us. He nodded a
last time, something between a farewell, and 'you haven't seen
the last of me' and turned. I watched him walk away, my eyes not
leaving his back until he was inside the Pensione and nearly out
of sight.

I breathed out slowly, feeling growing disbelief,
wondering what I had stumbled into. The man had left no question
that he had designs on Ricci. I sighed and shook my head, turning
to look out over the sea yet again. All the answers were there, I
fancied. In a different place and time, where there were no
schemes, where people appreciated that men and boys could love
each other.

"Mr. Gardner?"

I swivelled back at the interruption. Celcilia smiled and
I smiled back. "An excellent meal," I said. "The absolutely very
best meal I have ever had."

"You're very,... nice, but,... it's not that good."

"Please sit down," I suggested. "We need to talk."

"Father Pietro?"

"Yes. I saw him earlier in the piazza today when I was out
walking with Ricci. I could tell Ricci didn't like him very
much."

"Ricci tell you something, si?"

"No, nothing. But I had this feeling. And then, just now,
Father Pietro came to my table. It wasn't very pleasant. Was,...
Is Ricci?"

Cecelia shook her head quickly. "He want Ricci to be
ragazzo di altar. What is it in English? The boy at the altar?"

"The altar boy?"

"Yes. But it is not for,... how we say guisto motivo."

"Motivo? Motivation? You mean the right reason?"

Cecelia nodded quickly. "He wants Ricci. Not like you do.
For you, I know it is from the heart. Not even Mr. Alison is like
you. For both of them it is, I'm sorry. I wish my words were
better. 'Fra i piedini'. Down there." She gestured vaguely below
her waist.

"That one is easy. I think you mean 'between the legs'," I
chuckled. "Yes, for Bryce, a lot of it was between the legs. He
was like that. I think he loved Ricci too, but in his own way. He
showed me a photograph of Ricci before he died and I could tell
he was very happy."

"Father Pietro,... he wants Ricci. There is no secret. One
day he take Ricci into his office. He want Ricci to show him, let
him feel down there, touch him where it is private. Ricci not
wanting to, but,... No means nothing, not yes."

"That's not right," I said adamantly. "Unless Ricci really
wants to, nothing should happen."

Cecelia shrugged. "It makes no difference for Pietro. A
boy is to serve."

"That's so wrong," I said in disgust. "He said it wasn't
right for Ricci to be with a tourist. He meant me, of course."

"Si!" Celicia lowered her voice. "People see you with
Ricci. They know you are his special friend. Your gift,...the
catena,..."

"Oh! God! I'm sorry. The necklace. I didn't mean,..."

"Ricci likes you. He wears your gift to show he likes
you," Cecilia explained. "What did you expect of him?"

"I don't know. I didn't intend anything wrong," I said
dejectedly. "I just wanted to give him something to show,..." I
smiled weakly. "That I liked him."

Cecelia shrugged. "He doesn't care, but people talk.
Already someone has told Pietro. Tomorrow all of Trinita will
know he's yours."

"Oh!" I groaned. "God I'm sorry."

"Perhaps it is better that people know," Cecilia said
softly. "Then you have nothing to hide from them."

It was a strange logic, yet it was admirable. If everyone
in Trinita knew that I was a boy lover, then there was nothing to
keep secret. Of course there was a flaw in her logic, and it was
a gaping hole. It presumed acceptance, or at the very least,
enough tolerance on the part of the villagers to ignore what most
western societies decried.

"Perhaps," I agreed tentatively. "Really, I just wanted to
give him something. I didn't know."

Cecelia gestured towards the ocean. "Ricci can decide what
he wants for himself. He likes you."

I smiled happily, feeling a warm glow. "It's mutual, you
know."

"The two of you will become very close. I feel it here,"
Cecilia said, touching her hand to her heart. "It's only be
natural. I expect you to respect him. In many ways, he's still a
young boy."

"I will," I answered. "I will."

She nodded. "After you are lovers, will you go from
Trinita?"

 I shook my head resolutely, although I had a very limited
idea of what she asked. Did she mean leave him to continue my
career, or leave him because I was no longer interested in him.
After he was no longer a young boy would I still be sexually
attracted to him? I wasn't sure how I could continue as a
photographer and remain in Trinita, this despite how photogenic
the region and its people were. Suddenly a thought came to me.

"I think Bryce must have understood that Ricci and I
would,... become very close," I finished awkwardly.

I wondered why it was so easy for his mother to talk about
her son and I as being lovers while I found it so difficult that
it was nearly impossible.

"Mr. Alison?" she prompted.

"He left me his share. It's all explained in this," I said
as I reached into my pocket. "It's a letter from his solicitor in
London."

"Si! Mr. Alison pay to fix up the Pensione. We were
partners. Half is his. Now it is yours?"

"Yes, at least once I've paid some estate taxes. It seems
we're to be partners, Cecilia. I'd understand if you wanted to
buy it back. I'd sell if you wanted."

She smiled ruefully. "When Mr. Alison came, I thought the
problema was fixed. You understand? For Ricci, Mr. Alison was
vantaggioso, ah,...." Cecilia smiled. "I wish my English like
Ricci's. But not so good, eh? I think, it's opportuno. Like
correct,... right for him,..."

"Bryce offered advantages? An opportunity?" I suggested.
"You mean that he came at the right time?"

"Si, and Ricci like Mr. Alison a lot. I see them walking,
and I know, here," she said, touching her heart again.
"Innamorato. Mr. Alsion is amante de ragazzi,... He is much like
you, I think. Ricci need him."

I grinned. "I'm beginning to see the picture, I think. And
what about me?"

"Ah," Cecilia smiled back at me. "Ricci is innamorato. You
want to use that word too, but you don't. It means 'in love'. Are
you, Mr. Gardner?"

"Am I,... in love with Ricci?" I nodded slowly. Ifelt my
heart lurch as the answer formed in my mind. "Yes!"

"You feel for him, here?" Cecilia asked, her hand still
against her heart.

"Yes! Very much!" I took a deep breath. "I know I've only
known him for a few hours, but I think it's forever,... I know I
love him," I explained. "I've never been so sure of anything
before in my entire life."

"That is the way love strikes," she said quietly. "The
arrow sinks deep when it is strikes. There is no armor to protect
the heart, not for a man, not even for a boy."

She inclined her head and I followed her gaze, looking
back at the plastered wall and peeling paint of the Pensione.
There were several rooms on the second and third floors with
lights on. One of them was probably Ricci's room. I wondered what
his bedroom looked like. I imagined it to be like the rest of the
Pensione, a quiet understatement of who he was, like the
Sardinian lifestyle. However it would still be the room of a ten-
year-old boy, full of the toys and trappings of innocent youth. I
imagined him lying in his bed, the white sheets crisp and cool,
covering his slender body, his tousled dark head, on the pillow.
When Cecilia turned back again, she smiled. Slowly she stood up.
Her eyes met mine.

"It's good you are here for Ricci, I think. He needs you
very much."

I swallowed, slowly nodding. I needed him even more. Just
the thought of being close to him, close enough to touch, was
sufficient to make my heart beat faster. I was as nervous as a
schoolboy.

"You will stay here,..." Cecilia said.

Her voice inflected at the end, yet I was still not sure
whether her comment was a statement of fact, or a question that I
should answer, even if I knew the answer. I was unable to speak.
I didn't know. In a way, it was an easy decision to make. I would
stay with Ricci, spending my days working in the Pensione or
photographing the region, my nights in Ricci's arms. Anywhere
else, I would have to guiltily conceal my prediliction for boys,
but I understood that it was different here. I had her
acceptance, an acknowledgement that Ricci and I were intended for
each other. I sighed happily. And yet, while all my fantasies of
loving boys could be so easily satisifed by saying 'yes', I would
be unable to attain my other dreams of travelling the world, of
developing my career as a photographer.

Cecilia did not press for an answer. By the time I looked
back at here she had gone. I sighed again, dulledly shaking my
head and wishing that my life was simpler. Until half a day ago,
barely twelve hours ago, it had been very simple. Now it had
taken on a complexity that left me uncertain of my future.



Slowly I walked across the flagstones until I reached the
stairs. Cecilia was standing in the doorway that led to the
owner's apartment. She smiled and beckonned to me. Of course, I
changed direction and followed her into Ricci's life.

The apartment, like the rest of the Pensione, was
furnished with a simple elegance that complemented the
whitewashed walls. The main room was small, not much bigger than
my bedroom upstairs. Clearly, it was used to prepare foods for
later use in the restaurant. The smell was evocative, an aroma of
fresh herbs mixed with rising dough. I felt a sudden warmth, a
glow that this was Ricci's domain. This was where he lived, where
he had grown from a baby into a beautiful young boy.

Holding her finger to her lips, Cecilia led me up the
narrow staircase. The treads creaked slightly, despite my best
efforts to be quiet. At the end of the corridor, the door was
wide open. There was a tiny bathroom with an ancient cast-iron
bath with claw feet. It was enclosed by a white nylon curtain.
Behind the curtain was a sight that took my breath away. Ricci
was outlined, his nude form veiled by the translucent cloth. Yet,
there was no question what he was doing. I concealed a smile.
What young boy has not discovered ways of pleasuring his male
parts while showering.

Yet, Ricci was not masturbating, although he often touched
his private places, both front and back. He was so engrossed that
he was totally oblivious to us. I felt honored as I witnessed
what was obviously a nightly ritual for him. I was also astounded
by his lack of inhibition before I remembered what happened
earlier in the day. Ricci was displaying his sensual side. His
body gyrated very gently, as if seeking a higher plane of
pleasure that only he could attain. His hands glided over his
soapy body, following the smooth slippery contour. Every few
seconds his hands crossed his lower belly, grazed the stiff
projection between his thighs, left it flexing hungrily for more.
I watched his body arch, thighs, belly, and groin straining out.
He trembled sporadically with self indugent eroticism, aware only
of the tingling delight that came from his caressing fingers. His
fingers brushed his nipples, tiny buds like dark points on his
slender chest, then slowly glided down his sleek torso, beyond
his narrow hips, behind his back, across his buttocks. There one
hand lingered by itself, obviously evoking sensations from
between his cheeks, the other hand cupping his testicles with
fingers squeezing. He shuddered involuntarily. I had the distinct
impression that a finger, or perhaps two fingers, had passed
through his nether portal into a region of delectable sensations.

 I was fully erect in a matter of a few seconds, breathing
heavily and unable to take my eyes from the swaying shadow for
more than a moment. A fleeting smile passed across Julia's face
and I smiled back. Did she understand the thrill I felt? Her son
was beautiful. His sexuality was undeniable. I watched his
fingers wrap around his squat maleness, his hand moving with
abrupt jerks. His entire being seemed to be concentrated in his
rigid penis. As he turned sideways, I saw his body in profile.
His penis was less than ten centimeters long, not even two
centimeters thick. I could see no detail other than outline, yet
I knew it was beautiful. It looked as though his fingers were
barely touching it as they rubbed. He concentrated on the tip,
pinching his glans frantically, for like most young boys the
foreskin-covered tip provided feelings that were overpowering.

His pre-pubescent orgasm came much too fast and it was
gone in a matter of seconds. His body quaked, his hand
oscillating furiously. I could almost feel the surge running
through him, the trembling of his thighs, the pressure bursting
inside him. It ended with a whimper and the slackening of taut
young muscles that had suddenly been drained of strength.

I felt Cecilia's hand brush my arm, gently guiding me to
leave before Ricci returned to his senses and looked around him.
I was breathing deeply, lost for words, my mind in turmoil. His
mother smiled slightly.

"Perhaps now, Mr. Gardner, you will stay here in Trinita?"
she whispered as she turned to lead the way back down the stairs.


END PART 1.