Date: Wed, 23 Jan 2002 08:54:49 -0800 (PST)
From: dante umbero <danteumbero@yahoo.com>
Subject: night encounters-2

This is a continuing work of homosexual fiction.  If
you are offended by such or it is illegal to view it
in you area please go no further.  This is fictional
and any similarity to anyone living or dead was
unintentional.
Dante

Rio
The D'Yarro district was not somewhere tourists went.
In fact the local authorities were known to arrest
stray tourists here, just to get them out of this
district of dark, crumbling colonial buildings on
narrow streets.  My "safe" house was an apartment
located just off a square called the Plaza D Angelico,
place of Angels.  The old fountain in the center had
long ago been commandeered by the locals for a laundry
and sometime bath.  The irregular cobbles had sickly
pale green weeds sprouting in "out of the way"
corners.  My dark hair and coloring, a present from my
Italian ancestors, and my flawless Portuguese allowed
me to disappear into the anonymous inhabitants of this
place.  The locals asked no questions of each other in
this corner of Rio.  To them I was just another man
with no name, and a potential for violence.  The
corporation has used the apartment for several years
now; it provides a great listening post and the poor
and violent neighborhood provides excellent cover for
our monitoring of certain drug smuggling operations.
I had been here for two months now, and the strain of
the killing field was getting to me.

I am in the desert and the smoke from the burning oil
wells stings my eyes and I hear my buddy, Eric's,
breath next to me as we look through our night vision
goggles and try to get a fix on the Iraqi bunker.
Suddenly a firefight erupts and all you see is muzzle
flashes.  The shooting stops and all I hear is the
silent scream in my mind as my buddy lays dying at my
feet.

 "The Norse believed to die in battle got you a ticket
to this really cool place called Valhalla, man, think
there's anything to it?"  My buddy whispers and is
gone.

"Requiest en Pacem, " I pray through the tears.

Rio and the assignment.  The late evening sun pours
through the dirty French doors and into the main room
of the apartment.  The old tattered drapes let in as
much light as they keep out.  At sometime in the
distant past the high ceiling chamber had been some
Grandee's French styled salon but it was now the
kitchen and living/dining room and in one corner the
rooms classical proportions had been high jacked to
accommodate a bathroom.  The paint was peeling off the
high style plaster cornices and the old parquet
flooring was warped with the tropical heat that peaked
at sunset and made you feel you were swimming in a
bowl of warm consommé.  The night is coming and with
it, the next moves in this chess game of intrigue.  I
was using my penchant for men as a tool in this game
on the killing field.

I lit a cigarette and through the holes in the drapes
I watched a thin young man unhook his tattered jeans
in the doorway of the house opposite.  He fished his
rather large uncircumcised dick out of his pants and
began to enjoy a long piss.  He stroked his dick
slowly as the yellow liquid made wet stains on the
stucco of the old doorway.  Rio certainly wasn't the
USA in more ways than one.  I could feel my dick stir
with awakening desire.  He looked up at my window and
I paused, made eye contact and let the tatters fall
back into place. The twilight of the tropics has set
in, I wasn't expected for several hours.  "Might as
well have some fun while I wait", I thought.

I quietly slipped out the apartment door and down the
creaking steps to the main door of this old townhouse.
 I stepped out into the fading sunlight on the street;
took the last puff of my smoke, threw the butt into
the gutter and looked toward the house where the young
man had been.  He was leaning against the ornate
stucco of the door opening and raised his chin at me
when he saw me.  I replied in the same manner, lightly
cupping my crotch, and stepped back into the door but
left it open.  Pausing at the foot of the steps to
make sure he had followed I ascended the stairs and
paused at the door of the apartment.

He came up behind me and whispered in Portuguese, "You
got some liquor?"  His voice was husky with desire,
not sexual desire but the desire to get a fix for his
addiction.  He is an alcoholic and will do anything
for drinks.  Rio's full of these people men and women,
varying in age from children to adults.  They didn't
live much past 30, if the drink didn't get them, they
were swept away by poor nutrition and some contagion
that the government did nothing about.  My companion
was about 18.  I hadn't seen him before, but his type
is common.

I smiled in answer and opened the door and held it for
him to go through.  I asked him in Portuguese if he
knew what I wanted, and he replied that he was mine as
long as the liquor held out.  We both laughed.  He in
nervous anticipation of the unknown and I at the
tragedy of this man, who with a bath and some clean
clothes would have been incredibly handsome.  Like the
wildebeest on the savanna, he is meat for the
predator.  He had classic Latin features, high
forehead and a sharp nose with fine chiseled lips.
His eyes were blue. Most Americans think Latinos have
brown eyes, and most do, but in Brazil there are some
blue eyed people.  Tradition holds they are nearly
pure Portuguese, others think they are descended from
German immigrants.  I imagine he is some lost Colonial
Grandee with a family lineage stretching back to the
house of Braganza, the apartment is once again a 17th
century copy of a French Hotel in the Rue St. Anne and
I wonder what his body would feel like in satin.  He
reaches for the liquor bottle, grasps it by the neck,
twists off the lid and tips the bottle to his mouth.

The Fiery local whisky is only for him and his type.
On the killing fields you can't take that risk.  He is
facing me, gulping down mouthfuls of the potent drink.
 "Passion is the only thing I feel..." I quote
Flaubert to him in French, but he isn't listening.  I
reach out and gently push against his chest and he
backs up and sits on the kitchen table.  After three
gulps he is less tense, the liquor is making his face
flush.  He spread his arms so that I can run my hands
over his chest.  The dirty, ragged T-shirt revealing
his hard nipples.  He laughs again and points at the
outline of my hardening dick visible through the tight
jeans I wear.  "Your snake is coiled to strike the
mouse."  He says.  I laugh also and point at his
nipples.  He sits the bottle down only long enough to
remove his T-shirt and then takes another long drink.


"You like doing this?"  I ask, as I lightly touch his
thin chest and let my hand slip toward his stomach,
which is covered with black hair.

"Only if there is no woman around to stuff it in."  He
laughs, then quotes a local saying.  "The man who pays
the band, gets to name the dance, eh?"

I reach for the waistband of his pants and he stands
up, taking another long pull on the bottle.  Once
again his beautiful body is revealed, the dark mat of
his pubic hair and the long semi erect dick.  His
foreskin overhangs the head some and you can
distinctly see its outline under the foreskin.  His
balls are loose and hanging low.  He steps out of the
pants, he is wearing no underwear, and sits back down
on the table.  I reach out and start feeling his rod,
playing with the foreskin rolling it back and forth; I
stick my finger under his foreskin.  He is starting to
get hard.  I am lost in the heat of passion and my
erection aches, longing for this Latin American whore.
I run my fingers through the hair in his crotch, it is
inky black and wiry.

I slowly lower my jeans and he reaches out and roughly
starts to jack me off.  I moan in pleasure.  He isn't
really into what he is doing, it allows him to
continue to drink, but this isn't what I want.  I
reach into a bag on the table and remove a condom.  He
sees it and slowly lies back on the table propping his
feet on two chairs.  His big dick is hard now and the
tip of the head is visibly protruding out from under
the foreskin, precum leeks onto the hair that covers
his stomach.  I slowly lube a finger and explore his
warm hole.  He grunts as my finger enters him, I can
tell that he's done this before because he relaxes too
easily.  I slowly unroll the condom on myself and
replace my finger with my dick.  I slowly enter his
warm tightness and feel his thighs against my waist;
the dark hair that covers them brushes me softly.  I
quickly develop a rhythm and He responds by reaching
between us and lifting his dick so it is against my
stomach as I thrust into him.  He is moaning and
whispering to himself, I can't make out what he is
saying and don't care now.  I withdraw from him slowly
and remove the condom.  He already knows what to do
and slowly takes me into his mouth I'm on the edge and
his mouth puts me over.  I start to cum and it is the
release of the violent darkness that I live in.  I
relax and he lets me go.  He sits up and takes another
pull from the nearly empty bottle.  He is slowly
jacking his dick.  The foreskin easily glides over the
purple head.  I bend down and take him into my mouth.
I hear him moan softly.  I once again let my finger
slip into his hole and massage his prostate as I
slowly suck his dick.  I hear his breath catch and
feel his cum fill my mouth, I smell his stale male
scent as I drink his jiz.

He takes the last of the liquor from the bottle and I
pull my jeans up. After many fumbled attempts he gets
his pants on and staggers to his feet, he is very
drunk.  Just as well.  I slip the needle of the
hypodermic into his shoulder and he slumps over.
"Alas, poor Yorrick, I knew him well."  I murmured the
line from Shakespeare and laugh.  He's not injured,
just asleep and will be that way for a few hours.  The
medication will; in combination with the liquor,
effectively erase his memory of the events and more
importantly, the location of our little encounter.

I stuff his shirt in his back pocket and arrange him
on the sagging sofa that is in one end of the room and
serves as seat and bed.  Then take a leisurely shower
and dress in dark jeans and T-shirt. Night has fallen
and the tropical darkness is complete.

I light one of the, bitterly strong, local cigarettes
and watch the whorls of smoke waft up and disappear
into the darkness near the ceiling.

Eric looks at me from across the mess hall table his
blonde Nordic ancestors clearly present in his pale
blonde hair and eyelashes.  His steel blue eyes look
at me with covert love.  "I've been reading a book by
some dude in China, think it was a long time ago." He
said, and continued "Anyway he said something about a
Lion and I thought of you, man."
 "Who hath drawn the circuit of the Predator?"  My
mind calls me back to business.

 I put the whore over my shoulder and silently slip
down the empty back stairs and out into the old walled
garden, which is now a deserted garbage dump.  I pick
my way through the bougainvillea that has claimed the
remains of the wall and effectively hides the little
gateway.  I carry his limp snoring weight down the
pitch-black alley and across the next plaza, which has
no light.  A few blocks latter I leave him in the
doorway of a burned out house.  He is safe, he has
nothing of value to take, and his body is for sale.  I
lightly kiss his lips tasting the liquor that is his
undoing, and disappear into the darkness that calls
me.  "Goodnight, sweet prince, and Angels sing thee to
thy rest."  In Portuguese I quote Shakespeare again to
his unconscious form in the darkness.

"He that has mastered his desires, doth draw the
circuit." My mind whispered.