Chapter Text
Oliver’s face still feels hot when he closes his apartment door. He’s sure everyone had been staring at him: from the man at the adult video store to his fellow travelers on the subway to his neighbors he met in the lift.
The tape is burning a hole in his briefcase.
Just imagining dropping it, the lid bursting open to reveal its obscene content, has him break out in a cold sweat and cringe with embarrassment.
What had he done? This isn’t him.
Well, apparently, it is.
His wife had to go out of town for a few days to attend a conference in Chicago. It’s their first longer separation since their marriage in spring last year.
Oliver has to admit he had been looking forward to it. He likes being alone, having not to consider other people’s feelings, tastes or schedules.
So yesterday he’d ordered a giant pepperoni pizza with extra cheese (Claire is allergic to dairy), cracked open a beer (Claire prefers white wine) and watched a basketball game on TV (Claire would have rolled her eyes) just clad in his sweat pants and a hoodie (Claire likes him turn out smart in a suit. ‘You’re a professor, Oliver. Dress like one.’).
All that sweaty, male skin and strong muscle on screen, combined with alcohol and loose fitting clothes, had him getting hard after a while. And as he’d been alone he’d allowed it.
Usually, he’s only able to have a quick wank in the shower, closing his eyes and imagining… things. But now he took his time, touching himself the way he likes it, drawing it out; a twist on the upstroke, legs spread, fingers probing forbidden crevices...
It felt so good. The players on the telly hugged, squeezing each other’s shoulders, slamming their chests against each other, skin to skin. Their oversized tank tops barely covered their torsos, allowing good views of strong biceps and damp armpits. They removed those jerseys entirely when they left the court.
After the third quarter Oliver had felt like bursting. He’d pushed his pants down all the way, spat in his hand and started to work his swollen cock in earnest. The players were mostly huge, black hunks but one midfielder was smaller, leaner, with dark, curly hair and olive skin. Oliver stared at him as his hand sped up, the index finger of his other hand pressing against that taboo place, sliding in, the stretch burning deliciously.
He’d come all over his fingers, crumpled pants and even the coffee table. This had led to him crouching on all fours minutes later, cleaning up his mess while still half-hard. The fear of having missed a spot haunted his sleep last night.
He really doesn’t want Claire to discover his habits and draw her conclusions. Maybe she would just laugh.
Though Oliver doubts it.
Some of her remarks in relation to current news make him think he can’t bank on her understanding. (‘What a silly acronym.’ She’d laughed when listening to an interview with the president mid-September. - ‘Do they really have to talk about it like this? How about some decency? Why mention it all the time? It’s a little disgusting, don’t you think, Oliver?’ Had been her response to Rock Hudson dying just last week.)
Things have been a little tense between them as of lately. They both have much on their respective plates. Claire’s a lecturer at Columbia as well, teaching economics. They both love their jobs as teachers and try to be available for their students so they often come home late. On the weekends, they’re meeting friends and family. They are a popular couple, so there’s a steady string of invitations coming in which have to be returned.
It doesn’t help that both their parents ask more and more often about any ‘news’ – which is their way of inquiring if Claire’s expecting by now.
Well, she isn’t. They both have agreed to wait a few years until their careers are more established. Claire has no intention to give up her position and become a housewife, a fact her mother, who’d done just that, never gets tired of lamenting. But Oliver loves Claire for it; for her stubbornness, her determination, her rebellious streak hidden beneath cream-colored suits and sensible flats.
Home alone, they used to make fun off their families, but just a few weeks back Oliver discovered folic acid in the bathroom cabinet while looking for Aspirin. When he’d thought about it, he’d realized that the Enovid dispenser usually lying next to the sink had vanished.
Maybe all of this is another reason why Oliver has been looked forward to Claire’s absence?
But she’ll return in two days. So he decided to make the most of his freedom.
Usually, he wouldn’t frequent a rental service like ‘Blue Men’ in Hell’s Kitchen. He’d found their flyer back in summer in a call box near the campus. He’d put it in the pocket of his coat and kept it in a drawer in his office beneath boxes of color ribbon, too afraid to take it home.
The leaflet advertised ‘steamy hot movies with explicit man-to-man action’ and just the sample pics printed on it got Oliver hard. He’d felt bad and guilty but couldn’t help looking at it during his lunch break. After intensive soul searching, he decided that it was better for him to watch a movie now and then than to pick up a hustler at Washington Square Park.
He’d been there just once, last winter. It had been a sobering experience. Very young boys had hung about, inadequately dressed in flimsy jeans and sports jackets, sniffing glue, with gaunt, hardened faces, their thin bodies already marked by substance abuse, their dead eyes following him, staring, knowing exactly why he came there. Oliver had to take a hot shower after returning home to.
Enjoying a movie in the privacy of his apartment seemed so much safer in many aspects.
That’s why he’s now hiding a copy of ‘Italian Love Rod’ in his briefcase next to papers on Plato’s Cave. At least the Greek philosopher wouldn’t mind, only maybe complain about the cheesy title. But the blurb promised ‘varied sexy encounters between younger and older men in the Italian countryside’ next to some very enticing photos of pouting dark-haired boys with huge eyes, convincing Oliver he simply had to rent it. He even bought a bottle of Frizzante on his way home.
It almost feels like a date.
He showers first and gets into comfy clothes – as his sweat pants are in the wash he decides on his bath robe. The wine is chilled and he pours himself a glass, taking the bottle with him over to the coffee table next to their brown corduroy sofa. He feels he needs a drink before sliding the tape into the slot of the video recorder.
There’s no turning back now.
Oliver fumbles with the remotes until the screen flickers first with gray and then with colorful grizzle before the images stabilize.
The music tries really hard to sound Italian – mandolins chiming over an accordion – and the performers try hard as well. The dialogue is forced. But that doesn’t matter when the guys get down to business. Apparently, the movie is set in some kind of all-male Italian college or boarding-school, but no one teaches or learns anything academic there. All everyone does is making out, usually a teacher with or more of his students.
Oliver feels a little ridiculous but he has to admit that it works.
He’s getting hard.
So hard that he fears this might be over way too fast. He tries to go slowly.
He makes it through a scene in which two lean, hairless boys give their older, hairy teacher a blow job, alternating sucking his cocks and balls while moaning all the way through. The teachers shoots over both their faces as they kiss passionately, jerking each other off.
Oliver has to pinch the base of his cock and takes another sip of the Frizzante to calm down.
The next scene has another professor eating the ass of a blond student in a sunny meadow by a stream. They both make the most peculiar noises and the older man comes all over the younger’s back.
After a cut, Oliver watches a new couple in a class room. The teacher is sitting at his desk while a student rides him, his dark curls bouncing, his back towards the camera.
Oliver blinks. Something about that pale back seems eerily familiar. Must be the dark curls that fool him, the downy nape, the long column of a throat, the birthmark next to the right shoulder blade…
As the camera pans out Oliver sees the teacher grabbing the small ass cheeks of the boy, squeezing them. There seems to be a tattoo on one of them, something round and small.
The boy moans something in Italian. What the fuck! Oliver thinks. That voice! Jesus, how is that possible? Is his mind playing tricks on him?
It isn’t.
The camera moves around to finally show the boy’s face.
No!
How the hell…???
His hair is a little longer; his cheekbones are sharper. His green eyes are closed while his mouth forms a perfect O, hanging open in a perfect display of blissful ecstasy.
It’s Elio.
The shock nearly floors Oliver but his treacherous cock twitches in his grip, eager, thick and wet.
Oliver knows he should stop the tape but he can’t. He has to watch this. Has to watch Elio riding this stranger.
He still remembers his smell – lemons and soap, saltwater and Mafalda’s detergent, sometimes with the note of fresh sweat underneath. So he can remember how Elio would smell if it was him who was squeezing his buttocks, buried to the hilt in his tight hot ass.
God, that ass…
Oliver’s hand speeds up. Elio bites his lips, his face contorting before his forehead drops onto the man’s shoulder.
“No!” Oliver gasps. “Look at me!”
As if Elio has heard him, he lifts his head again. There’s a flush on his cheeks and sweat is pooling on his upper lip. His eyes are wide open now… those iridescent eyes, the pupils small like pinpricks in a sea of blue and green seem to bore right into Oliver’s soul.
“Così buono!” Elio moans and even if Oliver has forgotten most of his Italian by now he understands. Yet despite his words Elio’s face is slack, almost blank, his eyes fixed right at the camera.
Oliver squeezes his cock once, twice, and when Elio closes his eyes as the man starts to pound into him in earnest Oliver thrusts up into his fist as well and comes and comes, so hard he almost falls off the couch, literally blacking out.
When he can look at the TV again he sees some naked boys outside jump into a river. But Oliver doesn’t care anymore.
He wipes his hand on a couch cushion before pressing stop on the remote. The screen freezes, a youthful crotch on full display. His legs are wobbly as he staggers over to the TV set and presses the button. The video recorder purrs as it spits out the tape. Oliver carefully puts it back in its case.
He squints at the back-cover, trying to read the names of the performers. They are all ludicrous: Toni Gigante, Rex Heat, Ricci Luv… but no Elio Perlman. Well, he would probably use a pseudonym like apparently everyone else. Oliver drops the case, hiding it beneath the soiled cushion.
He decides to take a bath, downing the rest of the Frizzante, and tries not to think of what just happened.
That he jerked off to watching Elio getting fucked by some stranger.
That he watched his precious Elio in a porn flick.
How could this happen?
When the water turns cold and the bottle is empty Oliver feels somewhat buzzed. He stumbles back into his living room and puts the tape back on, winding it forward to the end credits without looking at the men and boys moving comically fast on his screen.
He has to watch the credits twice to find ‘naughty boy in class’. As Oliver reads the name he knows He found what he’s been looking for.
Tim Albicocka.
Oliver laughs out loud. Oh, Elio… a naughty boy indeed.
Only later, when he lies in bed, staring at the white ceiling does what he saw fully sink in.
Elio filmed a porn movie.
Oliver sits up abruptly, feeling nauseous.
He still talks to Samuel and Annella at least once a month on the phone. They exchange letters on research projects but also birthday cards or good wishes for Rosh Hashanah.
But they never mention Elio.
He’s the elephant in the room. Oliver never asks. His parents never share stories about their son. The silence might be telling in itself but neither of them dares to break it.
Elio’s name had been missing on the card the Perlman’s sent for his and Claire’s wedding.
Since that somewhat fateful phone call almost two years ago they haven’t spoken to one another. If he doesn’t talk about Elio not missing him becomes easier.
At least that’s what Oliver has tried to persuade himself to believe.
Elio must have finished school by now. Given how bright he was, he certainly went on to University. But what he might study and where Oliver has no idea.
And how on earth did this gifted, beautiful, highly intelligent boy ended up doing gay porn? Was it a one-off, or did he do more?
Does Oliver really want an answer to this question?
Of course, he could ask Samuel about Elio’s whereabouts, casually, during their next phone call. But wouldn’t that disturb their safe equilibrium?
Has enough time passed to take this risk?
In the beginning of his recovery, after his return from Italy, every dark-haired boy he saw in the streets had him turn his head. It had gotten better with time but, especially inebriated, he sometimes still can’t resist staring at tall, thin, pale boys with a mop of dark curls.
He hates Bach’s piano music.
Sometimes just the smell of apricots makes him sick.
He’s tried to forget. He’s tried to be with Claire, and only with Claire. She’s his wife. He’s pledged himself to her before the world and god.
And yet…
Tonight, his head is filled with new pictures, fresh visuals. The images of Elio from their summer together had mercifully started fading, the edges blurring with the sepia touch of nostalgic yearning. But when he closes his eyes right now he sees it all again, sharp and clear: Elio’s lovely red mouth, his pale, freckled shoulders, the muscles of his narrow chest, his tiny, hard nipples… and his cock, jutting out pink and wet and delicious from a nest of dark, downy hair.
Oliver still remembers his taste; the sensation of holding him, touching him, lying next to him, listening to him breathing. The feeling of Elio inside him…
He never did anything like this with another man before – or afterwards.
Oliver hates himself but he’s getting hard again. He knows he’ll have to take care of it; it’s no use ignoring it. His tumbling thoughts would only keep him up all night. He has to teach a seminar in the morning. He needs his rest.
So he tries to make quick work of it, allowing his mind one last time to evoke those sinful memories of Elio getting fucked good and hard into his tight, tight ass.
It doesn’t take long for him to finish. Thank god Claire keeps Kleenex on the nightstand.
Overwhelmed by a guilty conscience, he eventually falls into a shallow, dreamless sleep.
The next morning he wakes up with a headache and almost forgets to put the tape back into his briefcase. He wants to return it tonight.
He very decidedly doesn’t look at the cover.
The seminar he teaches is boring, even to him. Later, there’s a faculty meeting Oliver spends doodling on his notepad. He tries to grade the papers he took with him last night in his office during the afternoon but eventually gives up.
He needs some air, so he walks down Columbus. When it eventually becomes 9th Avenue he gives in to his craving and gets a drink at a bar on the corner of West 54th. The alcohol burns on his empty stomach. He has forgotten breakfast and skipped lunch as well.
The video store is empty as he arrives around six. It’s the same queasy looking dude behind the counter Oliver remembers from yesterday, wearing a baseball cap turned the wrong way round, a pink crop top and tight bleached jeans, a blue bandana hanging from his right back-pocket.
Oliver has made the firm decision to just return the movie and be done with this whole thing, brushing it off as a one time only mistake but as the attendant takes his time to take the tape back, opening the cover, checking if everything is alright, he wavers.
“So, was it any good? You’re returning it quite soon.” The man looks up at him. His eyes are dark brown, his voice is soft. He’s painted his fingernails with glitter nail polish but it’s peeling off.
“Well, it was okay… I guess.” Oliver licks his lips. How do you review a porn film? Thank god he’s the only customer right now.
“You guess?” The attendant raises an eyebrow and winks. “Well then…,” He turns to put the film on a shelf behind the counter.
Oliver has no idea why he does speak again. It’s almost like he’s on autopilot.
“There’s an… actor in it. Tim Albicocka.” He can’t believe he’s saying this. He can feel his face burn. But the guy just turns back to him and grins.
“Oh, yeah, he’s a sweet one, isn’t he? Perfect little bottom. Such a lovely cock. Great sucker, too. He’s new but already made a few movies with Hammer Films. Wait.”
He slips from behind the counter and walks over into a corner. Oliver follows as if pulled by invisible strings.
There are many tapes with the catchy logo of a muscled man swinging a huge hammer between his legs piled on display racks. The titles Oliver can read make him cringe but also hard:
Toy Boy Galore
Young Ass Action
Sperm Devils
Swallow My Prick
The covers show young, lean boys, hairless chests, faces and thighs, their expressions contorted in what must be pleasure as they are taken by older men or servicing them on their knees. Oliver feels his mouth go dry.
The shop-assistant rummages through his stock to finally present Oliver with three tapes.
“He’s in this one. It’s mostly oral. Great rimming scene with that hairy bloke. Felching. Hmmm.” Oliver can’t believe he’s actually having this conversation but nods as he takes the video and looks at the title: Oral Fixation 2. Well…
“Here he’s in that group action. They use him real hard, almost destroying that pretty little ass. Double penetration. You into gaping, man? Then this is your movie.”
Oliver’s finger shake as he reaches for “Broken & Used. The Untold Story of a Street Kid.” Elio’s on the cover, his mouth hanging open, eyes staring right at Oliver as he kneels on a concrete floor surrounded by at least six naked guys, their cocks looking enormous compared to Elio’s light frame. His gaze is both vacant and somewhat fearful.
“Now, this one's for the connoisseur of the darker arts.” Oliver glances at the title. 'Bound to You'. The cover shows two strong fists holding a black rope. “Bondage, whipping. Does that get you going?”
Oliver prays for the ground to swallow him whole.
He buys all three films and swears to never set foot into that dingy video store again. He tightly clutches the brown paper bag holding his purchase the whole subway ride home.
Arriving at his apartment, he feels the need to shower to wash off the seedy scent that seems to cling to him. Afterwards, he changes into track suit bottoms and a hoodie. He knows he should eat something but he's not hungry. Not for food anyway.
He stares down at the tapes on his coffee table. With which one should he start? He probably will only be able to watch one movie tonight. Tomorrow, Claire will be back. He's not even sure he'll dare to keep those films in the apartment. Where to hide them?
So it's just this one chance of seeing Elio again. How does he want him? Orally fixated? Broken and used? Or Bound and whipped?
He wants to start with the tamest... but he also has to know how far Elio is prepared to go. Yet Bondage and spanking hits a little too close to home for Oliver.
He remembers the one time he'd brought it up with Claire, turning his question into a joke. She'd laughed at first but then she'd looked at him and sternly stated that she was a feminist and his wife and that these were two reasons why she would never indulge in such things should he been serious.
Oliver had laughed it off, of course.
Another fantasy he had to bury.
So he decides on 'Broken and Used'. It seems to take place in some kind of warehouse. Elio is dragged in from a car boot, already half-naked and bruised. There are guys hanging about, drinking. When they see Elio they round him up, hold him down and rip his remaining clothes off. Then they start to touch him. He squirms, trying to escape but the men force him on his hands and knees. Soon, he has a cock up his ass and another one in his mouth. He drools, gags, splutters. He gasps. He tries to fight back, to escape.
He screams.
They make him take it.
And more. And more. Two cocks at once, his hole angry red and swollen, already dripping cum. He's just silently crying at that point, his eyes unfocused, the pupils the size of pinheads. They hold a small bottle under his flaring nostrils. He throws his head back and howls. Someone shoots his load all over his face and he greedily starts to lap it up.
It’s sick. It’s depraved. It’s brutal.
Oliver is embarrassed how hard this makes him. He knows Elio. He's sure he’s not acting. He's suffering, in pain but lets those men use him, degrade him, humiliate him.
Rape him.
It pushes Oliver's suppressed dark buttons. He’d always wanted to break that boy, own him, crawl under his skin, look behind that nonchalant, educated facade. He thought he had on some occasions.
But this is something else.
He watches the whole video, coming twice.
It ends with Elio lying on the concrete floor, eyes closed, covered in sweat and cum. One of the men kicks him and he barely twitches. The screen goes dark.
“Fuck.” Oliver mutters. He feels in dire need of another shower.