Date: Sat, 3 Jan 2009 13:10:57 -0500
From: George Gauthier <georgegauthier@verizonmail.com>
Subject: Sol Invictus Part 2

				Sol Invictus
			 	The Eighth Tale of the Daphne Boy
				Part 2 of 2
				by George Gauthier

Author's Note: This is a tale of an eternally youthful young man and those
he encounters in the Roman Empire in the early IIIrd century AD.

This is another in a series of tales about an undying youth named
Alexander, called Alexandros or Alex in this story. The other stories in
this series so far are 'Antebellum', set in the American South just before
the Civil War, 'Daphne Boy', set in Roman Syria, 'El Dorado', about the
conquistadors, 'The Erythraean Sea', set in Arabia just before the rise of
Islam, 'Stupor Mundi', about the Sixth Crusade, 'Ferghana', a tale of the
Silk Road in Central Asia, and 'Zulu' set mostly in Southern Africa during
the Anglo-Zulu War.

It contains graphic descriptions of the male human body, of consensual and
non-consenual sexual activity between adult males, and considerable
non-sexual violence including gladiatorial combat. If any of this would
offend a reader, read no further. This is not intended for persons younger
than an age where they may freely and legally select their reading matter
in whatever jurisdiction applies.

It is offered for entertainment. If it manages to both intrigue and to
provoke prurient interest, it will have succeeded in its aim.

It is as historically accurate in its setting as I could make it, with only
minor poetic license for the sake of the story. This tale, after all, is
fiction. It is not a historical monograph. All of the prominent Roman
characters in the imperial entourage are actual historical persons; the
rest are ones I made up and are not intended to resemble any person living
or dead.

For the historical and geographical background you could do worse than to
read the novel 'Child of the Sun' by Kyle Onstott and Lance Horner whose
prose is explicit though not actually graphic. The web site mentioned in
the epilogue, forgotten-ny.com, is not just for nostalgia buffs. Check out
the section called "You'd Never Believe You're in NYC."

Readers who like these stories might want to try my 'Jungle Boy' series of
tales in a modern setting, posted in the Gay/Authoritarian section of the
archive. See also my series 'Naked Prey' in the historical section, my 'Mer
Boy' series in Gay/Beginnings, and the 'Track and Field' series in
Gay/College. For links to my stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors
on the Archive.

Comments and feedback welcome.

			When Last We Left Our Doughty Hero

In the early IIIrd century AD the immortal youth Alexandros is dragged from
his pleasant existence in Emessa Syria into the palace intrigues
surrounding the voluptuary boy emperor Elagabalus in the imperial
capital. The emperor's first favorite, the wrestler Aurelius Zoticus, wants
to use Alexandros as a tool against the current favorite Hierocles, the
emperor's charioteer. The wanton ruler and sexually insatiable emperor,
still only seventeen, had taken both men as his husbands, all the while
prostituting himself to thousands of soldiers and passers-by. Zoticus
installs Alexandros in the palace and uses his size, strength, wrestling
skills (and political power) to physically, sexually, and psychologically
subdue him, hoping to use him as a cat's paw in his intrigues.

			Chapter 4. School for Gladiators

Two days after I had crossed Zoticus by revealing his intrigues, I finished
my usual training run in the Circus Maximus and found a pair of soldiers
waiting for me. Their orders were to escort me up the slope of the Palatine
Hill to the palace gardens to meet the emperor's mother and
grandmother. Also present was the charioteer Hierocles. The emperor's
mother Julia Soaemias and the even more formidable grandmother, Julia Maesa
wanted to size me up. They met me seated on a raised dais covered by a
sunshade and flanked by guards who included my friend Caius. I had to stand
on the hot sand of the garden path naked and sweaty from my exertions,
looking up at them.  At a gesture from the older woman, I spun around
slowly displaying the welts and bruises on my back and bum. It was a subtle
lesson in power and position. I knew I was in no position to assert my
dignity.

"So you are Zoticus' new pretty boy." Julia Maesa began. "Very pretty
indeed, and a very good bed mate too, as I hear it. But he treats you
roughly, as we all can see, so I would judge you not wholly his
creature. They say you do not relish the caress of the whip. Do I read you
rightly."

Encouraged by this to speak frankly, I replied.

"Yes mistress. I am or was a prosperous merchant in the East. It was not my
idea to come to Rome and find myself held captive as a naked pleasure boy
for Zoticus' use. I have no loyalty to the man. He has all but enslaved me,
dominating me with his strength, his whips, and his guards. I don't go to
his bed willingly. He forces his attentions on me like a rapist and is
rough and cruel and mocking. You can see the welts and whip marks and
bruises on my back and rump and chest. Here are the rope burns on my wrists
and ankles from when he has me trussed up for a whipping. Frankly palace
intrigue was the farthest thing from my plans when I arrived in Rome. I
would gladly leave the city today if I could."

"I believe the boy," Julia Soaemias agreed.

"But Antoninus ordered him to stay in Rome at least through the summer,"
objected Hierocles who looked at me with a combination of hostility and
contempt.

"And so he shall, but not here in the palace as a guest where he is at
Zoticus' beck and call or subject to his whip. Hmmn, I have it. We shall
enroll him as a gladiator in the arena. He shall train with our client
Marcellus. The boy's career will take all of his time, and when he is
ready, my son can watch him fight in the arena in his honor."

"That's practically a death sentence." I objected. "I was frank with you
and told you I was not working against your interests to have the emperor
favor Zoticus."

"Indeed, we have taken that into account, pretty one. Do not think we are
condemning you to slavery or death, young Alexandros. We are not punishing
you at all. Far from it. This is just our stratagem for getting you out of
the palace in a manner pleasing to the emperor. Antoninus will applaud your
decision to volunteer to fight for him in the Colosseum. Marcellus is the
foremost trainer in Rome, with a small school of picked fighters, the very
finest. He is your best chance for surviving a career in the arena. You may
not know this, but many fighters in the arena are free persons and earn
great wealth and acclaim. Acquit yourself well and you may yet come out of
this situation whole and return to your former life in Emessa. We would
have no objections to that. Indeed I think we would all wish you good
luck. Well, all except one of us," she added with a glance over to the
glowering Hierocles.

It was the best deal I was going to get. The two matriarchs had nothing
against me personally. They just wanted me out of the way to thwart
Zoticus' designs. So I was bound securely and hustled through the city
streets to a grim looking door on a side street near the Colosseum. There
the soldiers turned me over to the combat school run by an old gravel
voiced former gladiator named Marcellus. I cannot say I impressed him
terribly when I was dragged by palace guards into his establishment looking
like more like an aesthete's catamite than a fighter. He loomed over me by
more than a head, a powerfully built man in his mid-forties. He took a
letter from one of the soliders and after reading it gave out a short
barking laugh.

"So you are the beardless boy I am supposed to make into a competitor in
less than two months. Quite the sawed-off little runt, aren't you. Bless
the matrons, they have done well by me in the last few years, but this time
perhaps they expect too much of my abilities. If I had my druthers, I would
use you simply as a servant or pleasure boy for my gladiators, a role well
suited to your physique and comeliness, but the grand dames want you to
fight in the arena."

Marcellus looked me over at close quarters. I stood there feeling very
small before this giant and helpless too. With hands tied behind, I could
do nothing the protect my vulnerable chest and belly. Our proximity
accentuated my nudity, and the truncheon stuck through his belt symbolized
the authority and power the big man now had over me.

The trainer eyed me critically, putting his big hands on my shoulders, then
slid his palms over the flaring pectorals and down my impressively
scalloped belly and circled the navel with his thumb, then ran his fingers
over my boyishly prominent hip bones. He turned me around and ran his hands
down the shoulder blades and flanks to the flare of the hips and on to the
curve of the buttocks, giving them an experimental squeeze with hands that
could have crushed a coconut, then slid the blade of his hand between,
giving a dismissive grunt as he tapped the small hole. Simply commenting.

"Time enough for that later."

Then he reached forward testing the firmness of the muscles on the back of
my thighs and calves. Hmmmn. He was honestly impressed how muscular I was
for such a slender lad. He spun me to face him once again, smiling at the
way the intimate visual and physical scrutiny had stimulated me, plumping
my cock up a bit, a drop of clear fluid glistening at the tip of the
foreskin.

"You are in good shape young Alexandros, especially for an idle pleasure
boy from the palace. You have a beautiful tanned body, toned, taut and
muscular with strong shoulders, as well defined abdominal muscles as I have
ever seen, and narrow hips. You will look good in the arena. For a fighter,
your hands are rather small, but your grip is strong. From the strength I
feel in your legs, I expect you will be quick and agile. Those are points
we will build upon.

"I see you are totally smooth with no hair anywhere on your body. I cannot
even feel stubble. Do you shave or get plucked daily?"

"Neither, sir. I never had very much to begin with. An apothecary in
Antioch supplied me with a permanent depilatory that has kept me smooth. As
for my face. Well, I have never shaved. So far anyway.

"And how old are you, twenty-two? Yet totally beardless."

I nodded but he only shook his head in amazement. He fingered my ballsac,
rolling the orbs around, muttering mostly to himself.

"You are well equipped for one so slight of build, so this is not a case of
arrested development or of infantile genitals. Giving one of my testicles a
bit of a squeeze, he asked: "Aren't these working?"

I was mortified, as the trainer clearly intended. This was all part of the
process of asserting his control over me. As Marcellus continued to fondle
my genitals and look at them appraisingly, I felt heat rush to my
belly. Oh, no, I thought, please not now, not in front this trainer. The
more I thought about my swelling cock, the more it plumped up. Marcellus
watched it quickly rise to vertical.

"Tut tut. There is too much of the pleasure boy in you to resist, isn't
there young Alex? You like a man's hands roaming all over your body, taking
possession of it, stroking it, controlling it. Well don't worry. This
little soldier down here will get his daily workout too. Wait till the
others get a look at you. He frigged my cock a bit, drawing the foreskin
down to reveal the purple head and slicked a clear drop of fluid on his
finger tip and offered it to me. I obediently took it on my tongue and
swallowed, confirming myself in his eyes as a sexual submissive. The
trainer did it again, this time feeling my boy cock get even harder. In
truth I respond readily to dominant men who treat me like the boy slut that
I really am.

The big man then pulled the stiff member out at a forty-five degree angle
and let it slap back to my belly with an audible thwack. A gladiatorial
trainer of long experience, he knew that sometimes to get the attention of
a young male, you had to grab him by the balls. A stiff prick made a good
handle too. He pulled the rigid member down once again, this time nearly
parallel with the floor. The resulting smack was louder.

"Nothing wrong in this department, don't you agree son?"  he said chuckling
at my discomfiture.

"Short and small and slender as you are, there is no point loading you down
with armor. I see you nodding. That is wise. A metal shell would do little
to protect your tender flesh. Hmmn, obviously in shape, not some soft
pampered palace boy after all. What did you do for a living?"

"I was once a Daphne Boy!" I said with a challenge in my voice.

"Ha ha ha, so you say. A boy in your situation who can joke about it has
grit. I'll give you that much, lad, but I do not see their distinctive
tattoos on your shoulder or haunch."

"All right, Marcellus. My situation is not your fault. I was a merchant in
the caravan trade and I have had some experience with blades fighting
pirates and bandits. I prefer to fight without armor, relying on speed and
agility. What can you do for me there?"

"In your case we shall train you as a dimachaerus, that is a gladiator who
fights with only two long knives but no armor, helmet, or other gear. The
knives are about the length of a gladius but not so heavy, so they are
faster. Still they provide for both defense and offense. That is the best
choice with your physique. Besides, a pretty thing like you will look good
naked in front of the crowd, at least till you are cut down."

"With all respect to your long years training fighters, Marcellus, I think
that in any fair fight, it is I who will be cutting my opponents down to
size."

"That is as will be seen, but I like your attitude, Alex. Well let's get
you settled in." he took a blade and slit my bonds though keeping an eye on
me in case I tried to run. I knew better. This was the hand I had been
dealt. I would have to play it out.

Marcellus pointed to one of the vacant cubicles and said it was for my
use. It held a cot and a small chest and shelf for possessions. Since I had
no effects at all and no clothing and I could expect to share the beds of
the others, I really had very little use for my cubicle.

He then introduced me to the eight other fighters in his stable at the
time. I was given to understand that I would most likely be matched with
fighters from other schools, but I still might have to fight one of the
others at Marcellus' school. It would not be a good idea to get close to
any one fighter. That did not mean that the men would not take me to
bed. Of the nine of us, I was much the smallest and much the youngest
looking though three were in their late teens.

"If that boy is twenty-two Marcellus, then I am the Queen of Abyssinia."
growled one burly man with curly red hair. "He looks no more than sixteen
or seventeen at most. Someone's plucked fancy boy who fell out of favor
with his master. Isn't that what happened, little Alex? Threw a tiff or
maybe played around with the cook or doorkeeper when your master wasn't
looking?"

Why is it that masculine men always think the worst of us pretty boys when
we get into a jam? Is it jealousy?

"Let's just say that intrigues among the upper crust got me cast into this
school for gladiators."

I wasn't about to give anyone information they might use against me.

"No offense, young one, but a little thing like you won't have much chance
out there in the arena."

"Thanks for your concern ... Libellus, is it, but I can take care of
myself. I am to fight as a dimachaerus, which should play to my strengths."

"Such as they are," muttered the red-head.

"Give the boy a chance, Pollyx." Libellius replied. "He seems well put
together. Well enough that, as current champion, I claim first night with
the lad. I hope you are not going to raise any objection there lad. Do we
have to bind you to the bed frame or maybe beat you beforehand to get you
compliant?"

"No, Libellus. I know my place, which tonight is serving you in bed. Just
let me prepare myself properly after supper."

"Good lad!" he said satisfied with my submission to his will and his lusts.

After all my experience with sexual servitude, I knew I could take this
latest episode in stride. With their lives at stake every day they went
into the arena, these men responded to the most primitive instincts and
needs: self-preservation, food, drink, and sexual gratification. I could
hardly fault them for taking advantage of a small hairless youth thrust
naked into their company. Anyway, it was clear that I was no virgin in male
to male sex, so they were unrestrained in their sex play, glad to have a
sex toy who responded enthusiastically to their lustful panderings.

They were lustful men and sometimes got rough, but not so much by
inclination as by circumstance. They were big strong men, and I was a
rather small lad. Their weight alone could cut off my breathing, and their
strong hands often left bruises where they held me in place while they
worked their cocks into me. Yes, I got battered a bit and spanked quite a
lot, strictly as foreplay mind, not as punishment. Pollyx especially liked
to make my rump as red as his hair before penetrating it. My trim body got
contorted and stretched as they explored the different ways they could play
with it.

My poor hole ached from the double penetrations they particularly seemed to
enjoy. I mean, I understand the virtues of team work, but they went farther
than any group I had encountered before in preferring to double team a
lad. They said they liked to feel another gladiator's cock sliding past
their own as they double fucked me. At times I was not sure my anal ring
would survive their vigorous double assaults, but it did, somehow, though
not without considerable pain at times.

They loosened me up so much my hole sputtered and squirted and squelched
and farted during my exertions on the training grounds. I don't embarrass
easily, but I did then with these men teasing me about anal incontinence. I
couldn't help looking down at the ground, unable to meet their gaze,
terribly embarrassed, blushing furiously, treating the men to the sight of
one of the full body blushes for which I am famous among my lovers. My
abused hole soon tightened back up, but the gladiators never let me forget
my debut as their joy boy. Often during the rough sex play I had to take a
third cock down my throat as well. I found myself practically buried in
sweaty male flesh every evening.

Still the demands of their training and Marcellus' surprise inspections
ensured that I got enough sleep every night. I needed it too. The trainer
set very high standards for physical fitness. He wanted both strength and
stamina. With my slight physique he could go only so far in building
strength in the two months available. He did not aim at muscle mass but a
building better tone and explosive strength to surprise my opponents. I
worked hard at my exercises though I never let anyone, even Marcellus, know
quite how strong I really was or how great my stamina. I would save that
for the arena.

Marcellus really excelled at weapons drill. Like a legionnaire in training,
he equipped me with blunted training swords and knives much heavier than
the ones I would use in the Colosseum. I had had three centuries of varied
training and experience but I still learned a lot from Marcellus. He had a
knack for spotting weakness and sloppy technique that stood all of us in
good stead. We all knew that his training might make the difference in
staying alive, so we were properly grateful and respectful of a trainer who
clearly knew his business. Indeed he instilled routines that I still use,
though I seldom get a chance these days to employ a blade.

He often gave a relaxing massage afterwards, being much better at it than
the usual slave masseur.  After a quick wash I loved to lie down on the
table and turn my aching and weary body over to him simply asking:

"Marcellus, I surrender myself for your ministrations. Please perform
another one of your miracles on my tired and battered body."

His hands had the healing touch, that is the only way I could phrase
it. His attentions to my small frame were the highlight of the day -- even
if he did not actually fuck me like the others. His hands kneaded and
pummeled and squeezed in all the right places. Sometimes he bent my feet
back and forth stretching the achilles tendons and then the plantar fascia
on the bottom of the feet. Sometimes he bent me in two, ass over teakettle,
to stretch my back, working his magic fingers down from the small of my
back to my firm buttocks. A delicious sensation of warmth sank into my
muscles as Marcellus rubbed a lightly scented oil into my skin. [Think of
Marcellus as Mr. Miyagi to my Daniel San in the Karate Kid movies.]

He could play my gentials like a musical instrument. If I had been
especially good that day, he would stroke me off in a way that left me
shooting like I never had before, an orgasm that left me seeing stars then
collapsing inert on the pad. Afterwards he carried me to my pallet and laid
me tenderly on my cot, giving me a chance to recover my strength before
supper and the usual sex play in the evening with my fellow fighters. I
don't think I had ever enjoyed a man's hands on my body quite so much.

I asked him why he did not fuck me. Was his reticence from his ethics or
from different tastes. Not everyone likes a comely lad, after all. His
reply was simple.

"Of course I find you sexy, you shameless scamp, but I am a happily married
man with a beautiful young wife and I have no need for such sexual
adventures." His tone was more of a man trying to convince himself than
another.

I later found out that he and his wife were secret Christians. Their faith
frowned on same sex practices, though he himself felt no repugnance toward
such. Indeed much about his new faith's attitude toward sex puzzled him,
but for the sake of domestic tranquillity he forebore from bedding any boy,
even one as sexy as me. Within his limits, he very much enjoyed bringing me
to climax at the end of his massages. He particularly liked to feed me my
own cum, making me lick it off his fingers, moving them in and out of my
mouth like a cock. I suspected a carryover from the rites of some eastern
fertility cult, but I never questioned him on it.

Ancient Rome's infrastructure enabled its dense population to live cheek by
jowl largely free from the diseases of crowding and poor sanitation that
bedeviled other civilizations. The aqueducts, public fountains, baths,
latrines and sewers taken together were a real monument to the advance of
civilization, one sadly lost during the Dark Ages. Still the Romans did not
share modern notions of modesty and privacy in their sanitary arrangements.

Our training establishment did not have it own sanitary facilities. Only
the homes of the very rich were so equipped. So I had to walk to the end of
the alley then on to the next insula (block) to the public latrine. These
structures were remarkable in that they had virtually no bad smells and did
not attract flies the way outhouses would have done. They were partly
roofed for protection from wind and rain but with plenty of
ventilation. Each had a long bench with a series of seats set quite close
together constructed over a channel filled with constantly running water
which flushed the waste away. There were no partitions between the seats
nor even any separation of the sexes, though one end was generally
understood as reserved for females. Most patrons contrived to cover
themselves with their garments while they did their business.

Being small and slender and totally naked, I did not have the option of
hiding my activities with folds of cloth. So I gave everyone a good look at
my entire physique at its most animalistic moments, especially my bum as I
shat then cleaned my hole with a sponge fixed to the end of a stick,
washing the sponge clean in a stream of water running in a trough just
behind the footrest and hanging it up for the next patron.

If I just needed to take a piss, I had to do it at the corner of the alley,
into one of the jars set out for that purpose by wool fullers who used
human urine to process the raw fiber. Short as I was and totally naked, I
had no privacy whatsoever, standing on a stepping stone at the street
corner, facing sideways to the big jar, giving everyone on both streets a
good view as the stream arced from my cock to the opening of the jar.

You must understand that Roman law did not codify nudity taboos the way
modern states do. Of course, by custom females were expected to be modestly
dressed but standards were much laxer for males, especially those who were
younger and lower in social rank. At the bottom, gangs of slaves working in
fields or on public works often went naked as would slave boys carrying
messages around town of out to villas in the countryside. Serving boys in
both homes and taverns often went naked too. My own status as a boy forced
to fight and train as a gladiator was pretty low on the social scale, so my
habitual nudity occasioned no real comment other that appreciative ones
from those who fancied me for a tumble.

I cannot say that bothered me very much. After all I have been enslaved any
number of times over the centuries, spending years at a stretch always
naked, never wearing a stitch. As a Daphne Boy in Antioch I would wander
the town on my days off entirely nude with the distinctive tattoos of my
profession visible on shoulder and haunch. The crowds on the streets knew
that the delectable boy circulating among them was available for a price at
the temple. (One of the reasons we got days off was so we could circulate
and publicize the wares available at the temple.) I later served as a slave
in a pearl fishery spending several years servicing both the guards and my
fellow divers. Catamite, pleasure boy, sex slave, Daphne Boy, call it what
you will, but if I ever was embarrassed by continuing public nudity, I was
long past it.

I ran a tab in a local tavern for a change of pace from the food at the
school. Patrons soon got used to seeing their naked pretty boy neighbor
drop by for a bite a couple of afternoons a week. Sometimes the innkeeper
had to correct the impression I gave to strangers of being available to
patrons for a romp, telling them that I was a legitimate customer, not a
pleasure boy in service. He occasionally had to call the bouncer to rescue
me from a brace of overly enthusiastic customers who wanted to just throw
me belly down over a table and fuck me right then and there. There are
times when good looks are a burden.

The food served in the training school was nutritious though not
particularly imaginative, hence the visits to the tavern. I did miss ready
access to books those first weeks, though eventually Kleomenes began
sending Caius to the school with the scrolls he knew I wanted to read. That
provoked a certain amount of amusement at the naked scholar with his nose
perpetually in a scroll, but the men allowed me to use my free time as I
wished. After all we were all in the same boat. I cannot say that I ever
really warmed to Pollyx, but he treated me decently enough. I had no issues
with any of the men I was thrown in among.

If I had any resentment it was towards the inhabitants of the Palatine
hill. Zoticus, Hierocles, the matrons, and the emperor. They all had seen
me from the perspective of their own interests and needs. It did not much
matter that I was an unwilling conscript to their palace intrigues. I
despise the way the powerful deal with the fates of those without power,
but I had no plans for revenge. Those people were way out of my league, and
I knew it. I just wanted to survive my bouts in the arena and then sail
home, shot of the boy emperor, his relatives, and his favorites. At least
they hadn't had my throat cut or sent me to the galleys.

			Chapter 5. Colosseum

My first bout came two months later in the heat of mid-July. The spectators
sat in the shade of awnings set up by sailors around the rim of the arena
while I was in full sun standing barefoot and naked on the hot sand. I
actually welcomed the oppressive heat of the afternoon.  It was my ally
against my opponent, another dimachaerus, a big man from another
gladiatorial school. They let him wear a loincloth and a broad leather belt
to heighten the sense of mismatch between us. He was thirty years old, a
bear of a man, tall and broad and bearded, and rather ugly for that
matter. Quite the contrast with his opponent, a naked lad almost a foot
shorter, slender, smooth, and girlishly pretty.

The spectators clearly expected him to make short work of me. Some of them
teased the big man for not picking on someone his own size. Most though
took his side and hooted at me, mocking me for being so young and small and
smooth and naked, a mere pretty boy, as if those things were faults, or if
so, were any of my doing. I was as the gods or the fates had made me. Why
tease a man or boy forced to fight for his life? There I was thrust into
the public view of fifty thousand spectators, men and women, gazing on my
nakedness, called out salacious comments on my supposed sexual
proclivities, or what they would really like to do with my delectable body,
aside from seeing it cut down. I was repulsed by their crudeness and
vulgarity and the sheer callousness and cruelty of their reactions. The
arena brings out the very worst in human beings, in the spectators much
more than the fighters.

Among the spectators was the imperial party, all those whose machinations
had led me to that moment. The boy emperor himself gave me a smile and a
languid wave of encouragement which was seconded by the matrons. From my
place on the sands, his makeup enhanced his appearance much as theatrical
makeup sharpens the features when seen from a distance. Even without makeup
I could see that both male favorites scowled, clearly wishing me to lose
the bout.

I used my agility and stamina to good effect against my opponent, wearing
him down with hit and run attacks. I couldn't just back away and keep
distance between us. Any sign of cowardice would have the referee signal
the archers to transfix me with their arrows. So I had to whirl and jump
and lunge to get past the man's long reach and score his ribs or prick him
in the shoulder or arm, weakening him with blood loss. The one thing I
could not do was take a stance and cut and parry in a stand-up battle. I
would surely lose. It helped that a wound I gave him to his left thigh
slowed him down, adding to my advantage in speed.

I think he would eventually have dropped dead of sunstroke as he was
lagging badly after our long session. In the event, I saw an opening and
dived and rolled to my knees thrusting upward with all my strength into his
belly. I did not escape unscathed. The knife in his left hand gave me a
glancing cut to the top of the head that bleed profusely as scalp wounds
do. Much of his bleeding was internal and he soon collapsed to the sands. I
waited for the audience to signal their preference, not that it mattered
much in this case. His wound was mortal. Though he had fought well, they
did not display clenched fists indicating mercy. Instead they gave the
signal for death, with the thumb drawn across the throat and held out from
the clenched fist (the origin of the thumbs up legend). At a nod from the
boy emperor I thrust my knife into the back of his neck killing the man
instantly.

Marcellus did fault me for my stunt roll and stab, grumbling that in single
combat he would much rather wear an opponent down than to try such a chancy
maneuver. I countered that if it had been an honest match outside the arena
I wouldn't have tried the maneuver at all nor would I have resorted to his
own strategy of attrition. I would just have taken to my heels and run for
my life. The lumbering giant could never have caught me. Marcellus just
laughed, conceding my point, glad that I had not acted from overconfidence.

That day I became an overnight sensation among the populace that followed
the games, the pretty blond boy with the deadly blades. My fellow
gladiators, especially Marcellus, made a fortune on the side bets they had
placed on me (the odds were twenty to one). Indeed their winnings put two
of the slave gladiators over the top of the mark they needed to buy their
freedom, though both determined to wait till they were ready to
retire. (One later died in the arena of an unlucky mismatch with a superb
retiarius, a fighter equipped with a trident, dagger, and net).

My fights as a dimachaerus were always David versus Goliath. There I stood,
a comely lad, seemingly no more than a gentle pleasure boy threatened by a
hairy brute who would clearly have loved to disarm me, then thrown me to
the ground and raped me in front of the crowd before finishing me
off. Several opponents mocked me at length and shook their cocks at me in a
vain attempt at intimidation.

I was beyond intimidation or embarrassment. Everyone in Rome knew that all
the gladiators in the stable used me as their catamite. So what if I were a
bum boy as well as a fighter. Yes I was a killer and yes I took it up the
ass. I was not ashamed of the latter and the shame of being compelled to
fight in the arena was not mine. By my stance and facial expressions and
gestures, I communicated my go-to-hell attitude to the public, which was
part of the perverse attraction I held for the crowd.

It was customary for the gladiator schools to rent a victorious fighter out
to those who wanted sex with him while he was still hot and sweaty and
covered in his opponent's blood. He was always chained up in a cage for the
protection of the patrons. That was supposedly the only way they could be
safe with and in control of a dangerous killer. It was not unknown for
distinguished Roman matrons to disguise themselves and seek an assignation
right after a bout. It was the ultimate way of enjoying the games, sampling
the flesh of a real gladiator.

In my case, I was frantic to convince Marcellus that Roman matrons could
never get satisfaction from a body like mine that simply could not respond
to the advances of females.

"It is really a shame that the female half of the human population will
never delight in your sexy little body, Alex. If ever a lad was born for
sex, it is you. Of course some females can strap on false phalluses to
penetrate a boy."

"Please don't do that to me, Marcellus. Spare me that ultimate shame. You
know how I cooperate in all things, giving my body up to any use demanded
of it, no matter how vile and degrading, but not that, I beg you. I would
surely throw up my gorge if that happened."

I was practically in tears at being forced to confess that not only did
females not attract me sexually but that their advances frightened me and
could make me physically ill. What kind of a male did that make me?

"All right, little one. Your virtue is safe with me," he said chuckling,
then patted my shoulder reassuringly, giving me a wry and affectionate
smile.

After getting my scalp wound stitched up, Marcellus had me chained by my
wrists to the wall of a cell while three gentlemen in succession had their
way with me. With my arms spread wide and on short chains to the wall, I
had to let my clients paw me and plunge my orifices.

They delighted in using our blood, my opponent's and my own, as a
lubricant. One man painted the aureoles of my nipples with the blood
seeping out of my scalp wound. That inspired the next to paint my anal ring
before he penetrated it with his rubbery cock. It did not matter that I was
tired and injured and technically a free person. In Roman society, the
powerless have few rights the powerful are required to observe. There I
was naked and helpless, shackled and chained up in a cell like a dangerous
beast covered in blood, now at their mercy. Their bloodlust was up from
what they had witnessed, and this was their chance to indulge their basest
passions for dominance and sex.

"Tut tut, little one. You are not supposed to evade my fleshy spear. Hold
still now and let me thrust it into your rump. A boy as pretty as you was
born to be fucked. Yeeess, just let it slide in all the way. Oh that feels
so good clutched in your warm depths. I know my fingernails must hurt
digging into the nubbins of your nipples, but there is nothing like a bit
of pain to arouse a boy or the man who is playing with him. You moan so
deliciously boy, but before we are through I would like to hear you cry out
and whimper too. You know you have really put a boy through his paces when
you leave him whimpering and sobbing."

My popularity with the crowd meant that I would earn real money in
subsequent bouts, but it also meant that I was too valuable to be let go
after my initial fights. I was held over for much longer than originally
intended, spending an entire year in the stable of fighters of Marcellus'
gladiatorial school. I know he twice proposed releasing me go back to my
old life, but the contending forces around the emperor were content to keep
where I was: away from the palace, neutralized and without access to power
or patrons. In other words, a problem solved. The matrons stressed that
Marcellus should keep me naked at all times, a reminder of my place in the
scheme of things. Indeed I had not worn any clothing since I first arrived
in Rome.

I did not mind nudity, not living with eight lusty gladiators who bedded me
every night and saw me training daily in the nude. As a fighter who
regularly displayed himself utterly naked before tens of thousands in the
arena, I could hardly be body shy. If anything I am something of an
exhibitionist. I like displaying my body. It makes me feel sexy. Regardless
of the wishes of the matrons, I would have spent my time as a gladiator
entirely naked. It appealed to the primitive in me. It was life pared down
to its basics. True the winter months in Rome can be nippy. Training
outdoors then can be unpleasant with goosebumps all over my skin. You feel
especially naked when you are the only one unclothed.

"Exercise harder" was Marcellus' suggestion for keeping warm then, though I
saw he always had a brazier going in the fighters quarters for me
afterwards. On really cold days he warmed me up with a slug of distilled
wine, the forerunner of brandy. Another way to get warm was to climb into
bed with one of the bigger fighters. My objection was not to being naked
but to being kept naked. The classes of people kept naked against their
wishes was a short one including prisoners of war, galley slaves, and
condemned criminals. People who went naked by choice include athletes,
models, aesthetes, and pleasure boys, all of which I have been at one time
or another.

On the plus side, my time in the arena did improve my technical skills in
close combat and I came to respect Marcellus and the life he had carved for
himself in Roman society, but I hated being forced to fight men I had
nothing against, to risk my own life and to take many of theirs. At least
the high price the sponsor of the games had to pay for each dead gladiator
limited the slaughter. Gladiators were simply too expensive to expend in a
single bout.

Also the boy emperor was lenient with losers who had put up a decent
fight. For him the excitement of the arena lay in the contests themselves
not in the killing: the swash and buckle, the clash of arms, the courage of
the participants, and the athleticism of their movements. In this he was
quite different from say the emperor Claudius who rarely spared anyone who
fought without a helmet. He liked watching their faces as they died. Yet
history calls Elagabalus a moral monster.

I desperately wanted to return to my former life of peaceful and honest
commerce in the pleasant surroundings of the eastern city where I had
settled. But I was stuck in Rome.

It was a year of constant training interspersed by over three dozen fights,
a third of them to the death plus frequent sex play, whether with my fellow
fighters or as a sweaty naked trophy boy after one of my victories. My
beauty and sexual talents made me much sought after, but Marcellus refused
all those who wanted to rent me out between bouts, declaiming:

"My establishment is a school for gladiators, not a whorehouse for men who
fancy a roll with a killer catamite!"

That is how I came to be known to the crowd: the killer catamite. The crowd
simply refused to believe that a small hairless boy who looked no more than
seventeen could possibly be twenty-two or three. (I was actually 335 at the
time.) My clients lost no time in spreading the word of how talented I was
in bed, at least with another male.

You have no idea how disheartening it is to walk out naked into an arena
with forty thousand or more human beings cheering about nothing more than
your reputation for getting fucked and for taking human life. It tests your
faith in humanity itself. I know it tested mine. Fortunately I had
Marcellus himself and the continuing friendship of Kleo and Caius to
provide contact with human beings who did not simply see me as a
commodity. I even managed to get letters to Drusus back home in Emessa,
telling him I was delayed indefinitely and enjoining him to keep the
household together against my return. He was also to wind up the few
commercial contracts I still held per my instructions.

For variety, the organizers occasionally pitted me against wild
beasts. Most combats with beasts are simply executions of criminals or
captives of war who had no real chance, unarmed as they were. I did witness
a few Christians thrown to the lions. Some took comfort in their
faith. Others, more realistically to my mind, were initially terrified then
agonized till death claimed them. When beasts fought with gladiators
(bestiarii) the odds were stacked in our favor. We were well armed and
trained and the great carnivores had been deliberately weakened by hunger
and thirst.

I had to fight a big male lion once. I was one of only two bestiarii armed
with spears to confront the big cat. Oh it looked good for the crowd, with
the lion roaring, displaying his alarmingly large canines. One swipe of his
paw could tear a head off or disembowel a man, so the danger was real
enough. We put on a good show, Libellus and me, jabbing with our spears,
working as a team to keep the animal distracted and confused.

The crowd was on our side of course, but also titillated to see their
favorite young catamite putting his life and tender body at risk, dancing
naked around the huge carnivore. The sun had long since blessed me with a
tawny hide to match his. With my hair grown long, I sported a blond mane of
my own contrasting with the darker one on my feline foe. After much back
and forth and a few close calls, Libellus finally got in a thrust to his
heart that killed the beast instantly. To his credit, Marcellus insisted
that Libellus got his chance with me before the paying customers. Nor was I
chained up for him. I was happy to oblige my team mate. Though never a
close friend, we worked and played well together.

Another time four of us had to fight an good-sized elephant brought over
from 'Libya', which is what the Romans called the continent to the
south. 'Africa' meant merely the province corresponding to modern day
Tunisia. They had strapped swords to its tusks which extended its reach
(though the blades were actually blunted). It was a formidable beast and
put up quite a fight, but the pitiful way it died made me thoroughly
ashamed of my part in killing such a noble and intelligent animal. I have
read that the animal trade for the arena depleted the fauna of northern
Africa so badly as to change the environment. With so many predators
removed, the grazers grew numerous enought to ruin much of the grasslands
which were drying out anyway for climatological reasons.

The only fight I did not win outright was against an ostrich. All right,
laugh if you will, but the big birds can stand eight or nine feet tall (244
- 275 cm) and can top 300 pounds (136 kg), considerably more than twice my
mass. The birds run faster than any human, can turn on a dime, and have a
powerful kick that can seriously injure or even kill a man. Their beaks can
deliver a nasty knock too at the end of that long muscular neck.

A two man team tackles an ostrich: one man with a spear to distract him and
keep him at bay while the knife man darts in and hamstrings the bird. Then
the spearman finishes him off. This works because ostriches cannot kick
backwards. Things did not go according to plan that day. I quickly lost the
long knife that was all they had given me to fight with. One kick from the
bird and it spun out of my hand. The cut he gave himself on that foot did
slow the ostrich down a little, but that was all the use I got from the
weapon. After that I had to dodge and weave looking for some opening, all
the while edging farther from my partner who could do little to help.

One of the archers fired an arrow into the ground behind me, a warning shot
or signal not to retreat further. I pulled it from the ground, hoping to
use it against the beast, but the specially designed arrowhead slid right
off it (a precaution against having them shot back at the emperor). All I
had in my hand was a slender feathered stick which I threw down in disgust.

Turning to face the imperial box, I held my arms out in a stance and with
an expression on face that clearly conveyed my bafflement. What could I to
do now, small, unarmed, and naked against the big bird? It was angry now,
hissing at me. To his credit, the emperor signaled the referee to back off
and give me some room to maneuver. As the bird charged I dodged then jumped
astride its back, grabbing at it neck and its wings, hanging on for all I
was worth. It was like riding the proverbial tiger. How can you safely
dismount? Its neck was far too strong and flexible for me to cut off its
air. The damn bird made a couple of circuits of the arena as I barely held
on, with Pollyx lumbering fruitlessly after us in pursuit. I looked up and
saw the boy emperor laughing wildly but with genuine good humor. Much of
the audience shared his merriment.

Eventually, at signal from the referee, I slid off the ostrich's back and
ran for the shelter of a line of spearmen. Archers quickly brought the bird
down, but I could hardly claim that as a personal victory. It was quite a
scary experience at the time, though I certainly understood why the crowd
found the whole incident hilarious. That evening, at supper, to hoots from
all the company, Pollyx and I were awarded the roasted drumstick in
recognition of our 'valiant efforts'. (It tasted tough and gamy.)

I did get injured several times, though only once seriously. Sometimes
speed and agility are not enough. The show that day was a reenactment of
some historical battle from the Gallic Wars with a dozen gladiators on each
side representing the contending armies. As a blond, I naturally was cast
as a Gaul, appropriately enough, since they were said to fight entirely
naked to frighten their foes. They gave me a big Gallic sword which I could
hardly swing effectively two handed and a heavy shield that weighed me down
and slowed me down. Caught between two 'Romans', I got clobbered by the
edge of one shield and hit in the ribs by the boss of another and fell
unconscious to the sands.

A real battle ensued over my 'corpse' which was finally dragged free by
Libellius and thrown over his shoulder and carried to safety. The crowd was
immensely pleased that I had not died in some dusty melee but lived to
fight in single combat another day. It took a week to get over the minor
concussion I suffered. Marcellus kept me out of the arena for three more
weeks to be sure I was ready to fight. He knew how serious a knock to the
head can be, bless him. He could be a hard man when he had to be, but his
sense of fairness had somehow survived a bloody career in the arena and ten
years as a trainer of fighters.

On the anniversary of the start of my career as a gladiator, I found myself
wondering how I would ever get free from my gilded cage. On the one hand I
had public acclaim and on my days off, I could walk about the city,
visiting the markets, getting recognized and lionized by the crowds,
smelling sweet from the perfumes Marcellus insisted I wear as part of what
today would be called a marketing ploy. Even after my string of victories,
what man looking at me, a pretty boy with a flower in his hair, with my
short, scented, naked, and hairless physique, could credit me as a serious
opponent to a real fighter. My survival till then must have been due to
sheer luck which would likely run out at my next fight. Or so the betting
went.

Whether I was out and about during the day or especialy at night I always
went with an escort. That was not from any fear that I would try to
escape. I was too well known to contemplate that -- even if the highest
powers in the empire were not determined to keep me in the arena. Escape
was quite out of the question. Even if I ran off somehow and got half way
across the Mediterranean without being taken, I could hardly return to my
old life in Emessa, the boy emperor's home town. I would have to start all
over again with nothing.

Marcellus sent an escort since the streets were always unsafe for lone
travelers at night. He particularly did not want gamblers trying to win
their bets by making me forfeit a fight because of an injury, nor did he
not want street kids eager for a reputation challenging me in some
unsanctioned and profitless bout.

I was often invited to symposia held by rich enthusiasts for the
games. These were pleasant evenings spent talking, drinking, joking, and
telling boastful stories. Sometimes I reenacted scenes from my bouts. At
other times I surprised everyone with the timbre of my singing voice -- a
light tenor. I also showed off my skills at dancing. Not for nothing had I
been a pleasure boy, either on my own account or as a sex slave. With my
reputation as a catamite, I did get passed around the couches quite a
lot. Usually the host claimed me first, after his servants took me aside to
check that I had prepared myself properly. I was always totally voided and
well lubricated, knowing full well what use the guests would put my body
to. It can be hard to concentrate on the polite converse going on about you
when you are getting serially fucked by the upper crust of Roman society.

Despite the support of my friends, I was homesick and heartsick at the life
I was forced to live. I am, at heart, a bookish merchant. I love the give
and take of business dealings and yes, I am a life long reader or bookworm,
if you will. And of course, I like male sex too. But those are all harmless
pursuits. The life of a gladiator ran against my grain, not matter how good
I might be in the arena. At times I felt almost like a murderer for the men
I had to dispatch. Was I any better than they were? I told myself that I
was preserving a life that might stretch for millennia whereas my opponents
had only decades to live at best. At times, when in my cups, I almost
believed my specious argument.

It was during the disorders in the upheaval at the overthrow and death of
Elagabalus that I got my chance to leave the city. By the fourth
anniversary of his reign, the boy emperor's excesses provoked discontent
and plots against his rule. Eventually the soldiers rose up and murdered
him, replacing him with his cousin Alexander Severus. For good measure they
slew his mother Julia Soaemius.

I barely managed to escape a death squad sent for me by Zoticus and
Hierocles, determined to settle accounts even as they lost power. The
murderers burst into the gladiatorial school finding most of us armed only
with training weapons though I was entirely unarmed and separated from my
comrades. (I was just coming in from the jakes.). My gladiator friends took
up edged weapons but not before both Libellius and Pollyx fell, mortally
wounded at it turned out. Marcellus shouted for me to get away.

"Run and bury your nose in a scroll, Alex. We'll hold them here." he called
out.

It was an improvised code telling me to make for the house of Kleomenes,
the deputy librarian. Marcellus and the four men left (two had died in the
arena) held them off as I scrambled over the wall and the roof then slid
down to the alley alongside, running for all I was worth.

Cut off, outnumbered, unarmed, and naked, I had little choice but to run
for it. At least I drew off several of the death squad from my friends. The
bad guys took after me as I raced down a wide street to build a lead then
darted into another alley using my momentum to leap upwards, briefly
planting my feet first on one wall then over to the other, propelling
myself just high enough to grab the edge of the roof and swing myself up
and lie flat. Done before the pursuit could round the corner into the
alley, I had made myself disappear, suggesting that I had already run out
the other end of the alley and turned left or right. That trick allowed me
to double back on my pursuers, neatly shaking them off. I made my way
across the city, most passers-by taking me for just another naked slave boy
running an errand, though some recognized me from the arena. I finally had
to take to the roof tops to shake these well-wishers off my trail too, as I
did not want to implicate Kleomenes in whose home I sought refuge.

Kleomenes had already made arrangements for me including both ready cash
and letters of credit from the wealth I had accrued in the arena.  We only
waited my release from service as a gladiator. I laid low there for a few
days, till we got the news that I was not on the purge lists of
proscription as an enemy of the state. Indeed the last-minute attempt on my
life confirmed in Julia Maesa's mind that I was no threat to the
succession. I was granted permission to give up the life a gladiator and to
go home, a step that pleased the crowd. The new emperor was determined to
display magnanimity and well as strength at the beginning of his reign.

The surviving gladiators and Marcellus gave me safe escort to my ship in
Ostia, the port of Rome. I left half my wealth to be distributed among
Marcellus and the gladiators. Clad in a brief sleeveless tunic I sailed
back to the East to find that Drusus had been a faithful steward of my
interests during my long absence and that all was well. I signed over ten
percent of my holdings to him in recognition of his loyalty.

Under the warm sun of interior Syria, I soon slipped back into the
comfortable life I had created for myself in Emessa. Having spent over a
year totally naked in the imperial capital, I was quite casual about public
nudity after my return to the East. In the hot days of summer, for business
or walking the streets, I typically wore only the simple white linen kilt
of Egypt slung very low about the hips rather than the tunics commonly worn
by townsmen. I liked the way the brief garment flattered my slender good
looks, emphasizing the curve of my rump and the flatness of my belly. Even
in cool weather I no longer bothered to dress for the brief walk from my
home to the baths and continued my nude runs outside the city gate along
the river. I resumed my avocation of scaling walls, running across
rooftops, jumping across alleys, and scrambling up the facades of
buildings, only now completely unclothed, to the delight, it is fair to
say, of much of the populace.

My notoriety from the arena did help with reestablishing my mercantile
business which had withered away completely. It was well known in town that
I had brought considerable capital back with me from Rome from my winnings
and side bets. My record of kills in the Colosseum made me seem less the
boy they had known than a formidable young man. Spilled blood more than
offset my life as sexual submissive. Ancient society accorded more respect
to men who impaled others on knives than those who allowed others to impale
them on their cocks.

I even took up for several pleasant years with my gossipy friend from the
baths, Lucas, by then a delectable nineteen year old. Our eventual parting
was amicable and on his terms when he moved to Antioch to establish
himelf. It did take quite a while for the calico cat to warm up to me
again, after so long an absence, most of her young life really. I
eventually won her over with fresh tuna and goat's cheese.

So ended the career in the arena of Alexandros, the Killer Catamite of the
Colosseum.

				Epilogue

The death of the boy emperor did not end the worship of eastern sun gods in
Rome. Even without an imperial sponsor these cults persisted and grew in
influence. Eventually another emperor gave his support to a cult imported
from Persia, that of the god Mithras. In A.D. 274, a half century after
Elagabalus, the warrior emperor Aurelian decreed that the winter solstice
of the Julian calendar would be celebrated on December 25 in a festival
honoring the sun god Mithras, a favorite among Roman soldiers. He called it
the festival of the birth of the invincible sun, natalis solis invicti. The
date was later appropriated by early Christians for the celebration of the
birth of their savior, Christmas.

Last year workmen digging a building foundation in Rome unearthed a life
sized statue of a 'killer catamite' as the inscription on the bottom
said. I had posed for it all those centuries ago. It depicted me in a
slight crouch, knees bent, weight evenly distributed on the balls of my
feet, with hands raised on guard. The two bronze knives that were
originally part of the sculpture had long since disappeared.

I heard about the find from Gianni Pertelli, a friend in Rome's
archeological community who begged me to pose for color photographs to
accompany the exhibition of the new statue and nominated me to be the model
for minor restorative work on the essentially intact sculpture. The
restorers (and eventually the public) were amazed at my striking
resemblance to the statue. My face and physique were identical. Even the
vein along the top of my cock was an exact match to that on the statue up
to where it had broken off. (Not surprising, since I was the original
model.)

The experts used wax impressions of the tip of my nose and my genitals to
restore the face and the rest of the cock and missing left testicle, though
casting the new pieces slightly off color to show the restoration. The
restorers also fashioned two replica daggers for the hands. The exhibition
depicted the restoration process in some detail, with photographs. The
accompanying text lauded as providential the lucky find of a modern day
model who was the virtual reincarnation of the original boy from the third
century AD. Two full-color half size nude photos of me (front and back) in
the same pose flanked the statue. Those and a half-size nude hologram of me
allowed viewers to compare the statue with how the original knife wielder
must have looked back then.

I went to the grand opening basking in the reflected glory of my early
years. This being Italy in late spring, I shopped locally for my outfit and
went lightly dressed in tight low-rise linen trousers without pockets that
hugged my hips and rump with only a tiny micro thong on underneath. On my
feet were just sandals without socks for that touch of sexiness. On top I
wore a dark blue shirt which contrasted nicely with my long blond locks and
deep tan and flashing white teeth. The sleeves were so short they barely
covered my deltoids, and the body of the shirt was cut close in the Italian
manner almost as if it were painted on my torso. I wore it unbuttoned down
to the bottom of my sternum. My obviously aroused nipples pressed against
the tight cloth which dimpled at my mid-section over a deeply indented
navel.

It is fair to say that I was a vision of youthful male pulchritude. When
Gianni arrived at my hotel to escort me to the opening, he took one look
and pronounced me 'deliziosissimo', a good translation for which would be
'absolutely scrumptious'.

By the way, the name Gianni is properly pronounced as two syllables,
sounding very much like the English name Johnny from which it is derived. I
don't know why Americans turn the letter 'i' after 'g' into a separate
syllable in Italian names like DiMaggio or Giovanni. In Italian orthography
an 'i' merely indicates that the preceding 'g' or 'c' is soft not hard
(djah not gah).

OK, I will admit that I can be vain about my appearance. If that is a
fault, I plead guilty, though I always try not to hurt the feelings of
others less generously favored. I do know that I drew lustful stares since
my clothing did little to conceal my gracile form, and the photos and
hologram let everyone see exactly what I look like stark naked. I am told
that the DVD that accompanied the exhibition sold extremely well, with all
the receipts going to the museum's restoration fund. One enterprising
picture magazine later published photos of me and Gianni playing volley
ball at a nude beach south of Rome. They were surprised and pleased that I
lodged no complaint, merely asking for a copy of their photos as a
keepsake.

The museum was reluctant to grant the statue the true title inscribed on
its base. It sounded too bloody and judgmental. I suggested 'Killer
Ganymede' because the word catamite is derived from the Greek name anyway
(via Etruscan), but they finally settled on 'Young Dimachaerus' as perhaps
more palatable in these politically correct times.

Oh yes, I still use the cityscape as an obstacle course, in the warmer
months anyway, about nine months of the year. I don't go in for the sport
in extremely cold weather. You really shouldn't wear gloves while
clambering about; you need the sensitivity of your finger tips, but winters
in New York are cold to call for gloves. Also there is much ice about the
city which you can slip on or freezing metal your skin can stick to.

Even with the increased security these days, the NYPD seldom bothers me as
I gambol about town, scrambling up half-completed or decrepit structures,
running along abandoned railroad rights of way or across train yards. I
often take unorthodox routes through overgrown cemeteries, abandoned piers,
or Central Park, and I occasionally haunt the ruins on Roosevelt Island.
You would not believe how many old orphanages, hospitals, asylums, rail
stations, piers, schools, industrial sites, and swampy areas have been
abandoned or left to go to seed in the five boroughs. The web site
forgotten-ny.com is my guide book to new adventures.

If the police or security do chase me, I can usually get away, making a
game of it. Occasionally I get caught, mostly because the cops can radio
ahead for an intercept even if they cannot win a stern chase. So sometimes
I have to surrender to the authorities. I am certainly not going to get
physical with neighborhood cops who are just doing their job. (And a lot of
the rental-cops are the real thing, moonlighting for extra money.)

Even then, the police usually let me off with a warning. They know that the
boys and young men who practice parkour are not really prowlers. We are not
destructive or intrusive of people's privacy, and we certainly aren't
firebugs. Indeed we often let the authorities know about fires that are
just getting started in out of the way locales. We are just thrill seeking
young males expressing ourselves with the exercise and display of our
physical powers, powers we exert over ourselves, not over others. And we
entertain passers-by, another instance of the exciting 'street theater' for
which New York is known.

Also I personally don't much fit the profile of a terrorist or a trouble
maker: a nearly naked teenager running around in just soft running shoes
(and no sox) plus a pair of skimpy, ultra lightweight, low rise,
skin-tight, cut-off, nearly sheer tan-thru shorts -- the next thing to
being naked, really. The cloth is a see-thru fabric perforated with a
zillion tiny holes to let the sun's rays pass through fairly easily, with
an SPF of 10. The cleverly printed pattern fools the eye and brain into
seeing the patterned surface -- not what lies beneath. In cooler weather I
wear colorful tights and a form fitting top, both done in space age fabrics
that cover but do not conceal, hugging my trim torso and flattering my
tight buns.

Even when I get hauled back to the precinct house I am never
confrontational, just the opposite: unfailingly polite, soft-spoken, and
contrite over my infraction. I turn on the charm and speak in a slight
falsetto, putting a quaver in my voice to make it sound very young and
unsure and shaky as I offer excuses and apologies. Besides, I look so young
and small and fawn-like and innocent (being blond helps) that even gruff
officers among New York's Finest, bless 'em, don't have the heart to throw
me into the lockup with a bunch of hardened criminals, not for some
harmless trespass anyway.  Oh some cops can be crude or even contemptuous
about my perceived sexual orientation, but most are polite enough. Some
even refer to me with nicknames like 'Sunshine', 'Tinkerbelle', or
'Bambi'. That is why, among other reasons, at Christmastime, I always
remember the NYPD and the Boys Clubs they support.

I do keep a good lawyer on retainer for when my charm offensive does not
work. One time I needed him when it worked rather too well. The police
would not believe my minimal ID -- a photcopy of my drivers license folded
and tucked into a pouch secured by a clip to my shoelaces. I looked and
sounded so young they were sure my ID was phony and demanded that a parent
or guardian come claim me. My lawyer convinced them that I had reached the
age of majority. I just looked really young for my age (which is certainly
true enough). My lover Jeffrey (who does not know about me) thought that
very funny. Truth is, I am often carded and frequently have problems
ordering alcoholic beverages in restaurants and bars where I am not known.

The sport of parkour is also a great way to make friends. Many is the time
I have been joined by like-minded souls I passed on my jaunts. Soon there
are three or four of us trying to keep up with the guy who is setting the
pace. All that running, jumping, swinging, and rolling, is very sensual
too. Like the ballet it puts lovely bodies on active display as a promise
of possible delights later in bed. I know how sexy I look, when I stop to
chat up a cute guy, me standing there all sweaty with my windblown hair,
heaving chest, flexing my eight-pack abs as I gulp in air.

That is how I met my Jeffrey. We quickly hit it off and run together
frequently though he often goes out alone around his campus in Brooklyn.
When he gets stopped by police or security guards, he flashes his ID for
Pratt Institute, where he recently finished his freshman year in
architecture, lending credence to his honest claim of a fascination with
structures of all kinds. These days his technique is more free running than
pure parkour. Jeffrey likes to throw in fancy acrobatic stunts like forward
and backward flips. All very pretty, yes, but of little use for escape and
evasion. But then, he is truly young and carefree while I, with my
centuries of life experience, can never be that.

Only recently could I write of these things, choosing, from caution, to
cast them as fiction, a series of fanciful tales of an immortal youth
written under a pseudonym. My secret is safe for no one in these days of
modern science will believe it. In this tale, all of the names are
real. The events described really did happen just as I have written.