ORSI ITALIANI MAGAZINE

ATTENZIONE / NOTICE

Questa pagina contiene immagini di nudo maschile e testo a contenuto omoerotico: e' pertanto riservata a persone maggiorenni

This page contains pictures of male nudity and a text with homoerotic contents: it's intended for persons over 18

The smell of a cad

Jan Vander Laenen (jan.vanderlaenen@skynet.be)

I racconti pubblicati possono contenere descrizioni di sesso non sicuro: ricordate, sono opera di fantasia! Nella vita reale praticate sempre il Sesso Sicuro usando il preservativo.

The stories published in this section may contain descriptions of unsafe sex: remember, it's fiction! In real life always practice Safe Sex by using condoms.

“Money does not smell”

(Proverb)

Real men do not wear suits and ties or Lacoste polo shirts; they drink only beer or whisky, never have a limp wrist, they do not dance, do not speak with a falsetto voice and -- taboo of taboos!! – they never, ever wear cologne – at least, that is what one would well nigh believe if, from the extensive range of gay bars in Brussels, he, like myself, were to frequent essentially what are known as leather bars. To be sure, if the patrons of these leather bars were to be attributed one epithet, it would have to be 'manly'. The patrons of, e.g. 'Le Duquesnoy' and 'The Slave' are just exuding virility. Even if some of these patrons devote a larger budget for their leather trousers, get-ups, jock straps, dog collars than a middle-class lady for her suits. Even if some of these patrons, before making their entry in such leather bars, spend longer in front of mirrors to admire their tattoos, nipple rings and to put on their earrings, and to curl their moustaches just right, than an eighteen year old girl would do before going on a casual date; and even though the arses of some of these men can dilate even more than a real vagina while giving birth to a hydrocephalic baby.

Alright then, no one is perhaps more erratic and fickle than myself, and I have not picked up my pen to try and puncture the inconsistencies and incoherent aspects of the leather scene for a good laugh, but to tell you how in God’s name it could possibly happen that last Saturday, nearly the entire cafe' area of 'Le Duquesnoy', and more specifically the spot around the cash register, reeked of perfume the whole night long. To the great displeasure of the rather anachronistic owner Pascal, naturally, whose goal was to turn his establishment into a sort of 'Mineshaft' in the post-AIDS period in the heart of Brussels, but who, night after night, has had to come to the frightful conclusion that 'Village People' types had in the meantime become museum pieces.

To the great displeasure of Gèrard, the barman, naturally, who always had refused entrance to his leather temple to all potential patrons who wore cologne, or had dyed hair or who sported rather colourful clothing. And yet to my great joy, first and foremost because a sort of healthy phoneyness is now part of my nature and the appearance of a queer in a uniform or motorbike suit often has an effect on my laughing muscles, and even more so, of course, because indirectly, it was because of me that 'Le Duquesnoy' on that particular night had stunk like a real whore bar.

So I moseyed from my bar stool in a dark corner sniggering to my drinking companion Louis, 'I find that Jean-Paul Gaultier has decidedly brought pleasant scents on the market, but that it is best to go easy on them.'

He looked with a smile, but somewhat puzzled.

'You see, both yesterday and today,' I began my story, 'I ended up in a number of rather unusual situations.'

'Interesting things happen only to those who have a talent for telling them,' replied the rather well read Louis, citing Paul Auster.

'I was sitting here last night, in my usual corner, drinking my usual little beer, once again musing and considering such futile questions as the meaning of life instead of quite simple giving vent to my desires in the dark rooms upstairs, when quite unexpectedly I was accosted by a lout in full leather regalia, replete with a cap on his bald head.'

'I can see from your comportment that you are in need of the rough approach,' he said, and moved right in front of me as if he wanted to block my way.

'Is that so?' I replied, 'and who might you be, who can read my most intimate sexual desires on my face?'

'Milos.'

'Poland?'

'Czech Republic. Prague.'

'And what did you intend to do with me?'

'I have a fully equipped cellar, and I could lock you up for an hour or so stark naked in an iron cage. Or I could tie you down onto my Saint Andrew’s cross and give you a good lashing. Or I could hang you from my sling, and cram your bottom with my collection of dildos.'

I looked at him rather mockingly, because his entire pitch and appearance seemed to me like a caricature reminiscent of Ralph König’s comic strips.

'Better yet, you can first lick my boots clean and then my member. I have not washed my thick, uncircumcised schlong for a week. I am sure that you are just crazy about pecker cheese.'

'Smegma,' I said inadvertently.

'So?'

I had a sip of my beer and readied my reply. 'Now listen,' I said trying to suppress a drunken fit of laughter, 'I am mad about Prague, not least because Mozart’s operas have been so heartily received there, but I think that you are off the mark. Now, I am no softy, and I have had my share of unheard of perversions, but what I am looking for at this time in life is tenderness first and foremost.'

'No, no,' I shook my head, 'if you were a small, dark little devil with glittering little eyes, a black beard and a nice and clean circumcised member, I would want to jump in the sack at once with you, but the two of us together in bed, or better yet, in your torture chamber, well no, I really cannot see it, I would only disappoint you.'

'Alright,' said Milos without the slightest reproach in his voice, giving the once over again with his light blue eyes and then moving to another corner of the pub.

'Jan, you are getting old,' is what Louis had to say about my story, 'or more fussy. Where are your crazy years, when you used to run after everything with a penis.'

Well, eroticism is perhaps a little like gastronomy. As we get older, there are more spices we can no longer stomach. You see, that afternoon, around three, I was sitting at home in front of my computer working away, when there was a gentle knock on the door. I went grumbling to open the front door – I do not like being interrupted when I am busy writing – and who did I see standing there? That’s right, a little devil with glittering eyes and a neatly tripped black beard.

'Are you Jan?' he asked me with a soft voice.

I nodded, somewhat confused.

'I have seen you often hanging around in 'Le Duquesnoy,' and thought that it would perhaps not be a bad idea to pay you a visit.'

Naturally, I turned slightly pale, because this desire-awaking alien was completely unknown to me in my sober state; and I wondered whether perhaps, during a recent blackout in 'Le Duquesnoy,' I had chatted with him, or had tried to seduce him in vain, or had given him my address.

'Be a good sport and invite me in,' he said, as he crossed my threshold like an old acquaintance, walked into the living room, and cast an approving glance.

'Nice, very nice,' he muttered.

Well, I thought, happiness often lurks in daring to experience unexpected situations, and without bothering about his name or anything of the like, I asked like the perfect hostess, what he would like to drink.

'A cup of coffee would be nice'

So I went to the kitchen, where I spent some three minutes with my Italian mocha machine, and then neatly setting a tray with two porcelain cups, spoons, sugar, milk and cookies. When I returned, there was a pleasant surprise waiting for me in the living room. My unannounced guest had in the meantime stripped completely and was standing stark naked, in all his dark skinned and bearded glory, doing exercises on my step-up machine.

Aha! said Louis.

I need not tell you, of course, that that afternoon approached erotic perfection. The sight of those round heaving buttocks going up and down on the step-up machine were worthy of a musical setting, so I put on Strauss’s Radetzky March. I then took my clothes off, and went to lie on my back behind him so that I could admire his bum from a frog perspective. In the end I asked him in a hoarse voice not to hesitate using my face as a seat, nor to be embarrassed about any flatulence problems.

Jan, you are obviously still sowing your wild oats, Louis interjected.

Well, I continued, “perhaps I have less sickening sexual tastes than I sometimes allege. Chains and cock rings, poppers and boots and the drunken roaming in dark rooms actually appeal to me basically less than a healthy romp with a dark little devil on a rainy afternoon, especially when the mouth, armpits and anal area of said dark little devil have such an intoxicating scent that not even Jean-Baptiste Grenouille could write down the formula, and for whose sticky spunk I would pay more than for a truffle or a mouthful of caviar.”

I took another sip of my beer.

There is a price for everything. Once I too had shot my load, perhaps with the same ecstatic expression on my face as a Saint Theresa by Bernini, for example, my unannounced guest asked me whether he should not be paid for his services.

I thought that you did it purely for pleasure, I broke off my question.

Do you want my kisser and body to stay intact and pleasant, he answered with a slight tremor in his voice, which made me understand that it was better not to grumble about it or even try to clarify the entire situation.

Here, I said pulling out a baroque one-hundred Euro note from my wallet. Baroque delights deserve a baroque remuneration, and I bowed respectfully, grabbed my bottle of Jean-Paul Gaultier cologne on the coffee table, and sprayed half of the bottle on the bank note.

Aha, the same cologne that has stunk out the cash register, said Louis raising his eyebrows.

Indeed… Another beer?

Whereupon I went to the counter and asked Gèrard the barman in a casual tone whether a dark little devil had paid for his drinks with a one-hundred Euro note.

'The leather scene is not what it used to be,' muttered Gèrard rather churlishly, 'you know, this oaf came here about an hour ago, replete with a leather get-up and a cap, he ordered a whisky, and then paid with a perfumed one-hundred Euro note that emptied all my change.'

He put two beers down on the counter in front of me with a slightly aggressive bearing.

Well, I had an unpleasant thought as I headed back to my place, that it is true, after all, that Moroccans are scared of people from the former East Bloc, and that the latter have for the last decade held the reins of the Brussels underworld, drug trafficking and prostitution….

Jan Vander Laenen

jan.vanderlaenen@skynet.be