A Marine Called Jason
(Revised)
by: Peter

(© 2007-2015 by the Author)
 

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

The Epilogue Chapters

Epilogue Chapter 30 

(Tuscany) 

I felt a strange calm as the plane taxied down the runway at Chicago O’Hare.  It was my first real adventure without Jason and I felt sad, but confident that I was getting on with my life. As the plane leveled off I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes. What would Tuscany be like?  Or Rome? I thought I might venture on down to Pompeii. But first, Tuscany, according to Jason’s wishes.  I wondered if he was watching over me; if he could connect even deeper with my feelings now. I wondered if he could get inside my head. I didn’t know what powers the dead might possess, free of the body and the bonds of man-inflicted society.  I tried to picture a villa, and wondered where I would find my Italian stud.

I didn’t know why or how the tour landed me in Florence but I loved the city. Still, I only stayed one day and night before, remembering the mission Jason had given me, I ventured on. I randomly picked the village of Buti as my Tuscany destination, where I would stay. Its small population of three thousand drew me.  The village was some distance from Florence, located twelve kilometers south of Lucca and ten kilometers east of Pisa, somewhat secluded by most standards. A train took me most of the way and I took a bus the rest of the way to the village.

I was able to get rooms in a villa tucked away on a hillside overlooking a vast grove of olive trees and I could see vineyards beyond. It was everything I’d imagined and more than I expected; very typically rural Italian.  A large bedroom that opened up to a terrace, a small, intimate sitting room and a large, rather lavish bathroom that also faced the terrace. It was so warm and inviting.  I ached for Jason to be there but I didn’t allow myself to dwell on what might have been. When I’d unpacked and put my things away I headed down to the village. The winding dirt path overlooked the rolling hills beyond.

I wandered the narrow streets of the village, pausing to look in the shop windows, occasionally going into one. I was surprised to find such elegance in such small shops in such a small village and I could only surmise that many if not most of their customers traveled from the nearest larger cities. I ventured into a very fine men’s shop featuring wallets, belts and sandals as well as fragrances and toiletries. A well dressed and exquisitely coiffed woman greeted me when I went in but left me to browse and showed me only the items I asked for.  This was certainly the place where I would buy the souvenirs of my trip. I picked out a wallet and a belt then had her show me a complete shaving set; the brush, a mug and a self-sharpening razor and uniquely Italian Floid aftershave.  

I saw that the shaving brush, sold separately, was $80 and the mug was $65. I didn’t see a price on the razor but the Floid aftershave was $50. The thing that bowled me over was the Cella Classic Italian Shaving Soap at $40.  I supposed the price was warranted because the soap was family made for nearly a hundred years. The complete shaving set was $310. I would use it sparingly. 

The lady saw my interest in a gift box of Erbario Tuscano toiletries and made an additional easy sale of $185. And while we were at that counter she brought out a sample of Acqua di Parma Colonia. I was always meticulous about smelling good—one of the things Jason liked about me—and this was a “wow” fragrance. She jumped on my reaction and explained eloquently that it was “a strong sensual scent, imbued with masculine elegance with a citrus/floral fragrance, dating back a century.

She explained further, “I doesn’t have the longevity that many other fragrances have; it is more for the intimate hours of your life. Your lady will be allured.” Then with smug smile and a flip of her hand, “Or your gentleman hopelessly attracted.”  The way she presented the product was enough to sell it. I had tried to keep a running tally and I handed her ten one-hundred-dollar travelers checks.  She handed two of them back to me. 

I felt guilty walking out of the shop with such a ridiculously expensive purchase but shrugged it off; I had the money and I would never be visiting Tuscany again.

I found a small café, situated on a narrow street that sloped down the hillside. My waiter came to the table outside in the warm sun, dressed simply in a white T-shirt and black pants with a narrow apron around his waist. The shirt was well fitted to his lean and tanned upper body; I could see his dark skin through the thin material. He carried a towel neatly folded over his left arm. His shoulders were impressive and his arms were well muscled without being bulky. He introduced himself as Angelo. I thought, how appropriate; he looked like an angel, and I thought Jason would approve of this young Italian stud.

With a slight bow he handed me a hand printed menu. I asked him what he would recommend. Without hesitation; Italian beef, because I was American, I was sure.  His English was flawless.  When I told him that he said he had a very good teacher. I asked him to recommend something more Italian; more local.  His grandmother’s minestrone and cannelloni with fresh baked bread and the local red wine.

I took his recommendation.  If he’d told me day old biscuits and cold gravy, I would’ve ordered it.  He returned with the wine and poured a sample then nodded for me to taste it.  I did and held the glass out for him to fill it.  I wasn’t quite sure of the protocol for picking up Italian boys and I thought the wine would help with my nerves. I needn’t have worried. The way he held the bottle caused his bicep to stand out and when I noticed he flexed it for me. He had gotten my message. 

There were only two other tables outside the café and neither were taken so the boy, Angelo, devoted his attention to me, no doubt, in part, because he could see a large American tip.  There would be, and more, depending on the outcome of this little encounter. There were patrons inside but he kept returning to my table. He’d left the bottle but he came to refill my glass each time, always with a smile, and his smile was electric.

He asked about my visit and made friendly conversation. I told him honestly that I was there, fulfilling a dream that my good friend and I had denied ourselves while he was alive. I didn’t know if he took anything from that but the next time he came to refill my glass he stood close enough that my elbow brushed against his apron. He didn’t withdraw. In fact, I thought I felt a slight pressure. He asked where I was staying and I pointed in the direction of the villa on the hillside.  When he went back inside I quickly drank more of the wine.

When he returned he brought my meal. The aroma was wonderful. He grabbed up the half empty bottle and went inside and came back with a new, cooler bottle. When he poured it he brushed against my elbow again, only this time with a little more pressure, and I could actually feel the bulk of his manhood beneath the apron. He checked on me several times and kept my glass filled with cool wine. I was drinking too much too fast but the sun was hot and wine was cool.

When I was finished he cleared the table then brought out a tray with three desserts. He had removed his apron I noticed a nice protrusion in the front of his trim fitting pants. He had a hardon!  When I purposely placed my arm on the table he stood closer to present the tray of desserts and pressed the protrusion gently against my arm. He was hard and very well endowed. We had made contact!  Oh, Godd, I thought, I’m going to have this gorgeous, angelic boy in my bed!!

I didn’t believe he was a prostitute; I doubted there was much call for the profession in the tiny village. I counted him to be a horny teenager, astute beyond his years, who had seized the opportunity.  I wondered if he was a virgin.  With his looks it was hard to believe he had held onto his virginity past the age of twelve.

When I was finished he brought my bill and told me how much it was in American money. It was as ridiculously cheap as the shop was expensive and I felt guilty paying such a small price for such an excellent meal. I asked if he accepted American dollars; he said yes. His eyes widened as I paid with five ten dollar bills.

“For your grandmother, and you,” I said.

He left but came back with my change. 

“It is too much,” he said.

“I know, but for your grandmother, and you,” I said again.

“I am not allowed,” he said, laying the money on the table.

“Could I pay you, then, to give me a tour of your village?”

“Yes, I would be happy to show you our village.”

“What time do get off work?” I asked.

“I will see.”  He left again and came back smiling. “I can go now.”

“Wonderful!”

I tried to focus on the tour but my attention was constantly drawn to Angelo. At the village church I took the opportunity to redeem myself for my extravagance by discreetly slipping the two signed travelers checks that the lady had given back, in the poor box. 

He took us out of the village and into an olive grove.  The shade was nice and there was a breeze wafting through the trees.

“Does the owner mind if we walk in his olive grove?”

“The owner is my grandfather,” he said with his killer smile.

 “You have beautiful teeth,” I remarked.

He gave me a smiling scowl and thanked me.

“Of course your flawless skin sets off your perfect teeth,” I added.

He glanced down, smiling and shaking his head.

“You are a beautiful boy, Angelo.  Surely you know that.”

Still not looking up, he said, “Girls tell me I am handsome.”

“And boys?”

“Boys do not say such things to other boys.”

“Many boys are thinking it. Do I embarrass you?”

“A little, yes,” he said, looking up at me.

“Would it embarrass you if I asked you to come to my villa?”

“No.”

“No, it would not embarrass you, or no, you won’t come?”

“I will come. I like you.  You are a nice American tourist.  Many American tourists are rude.”

“Rude never gets you very far,” I said. “Can I ask how old you are?”

“Eighteen. I am out of high school. I hope that’s not too young.”

“No, but I am wondering about your parents, what they would think of you coming to my villa.”

“My parents would not know.  They will think I am with friends. At my age and even younger, boys in the village have much freedom.” 

We were well into the olive grove and he said he had to take a piss. He took a few steps ahead of me but stood sideways to undo his pants and shove them down to mid-thigh. He was very generously endowed. Overly so, almost to the extreme; it appeared to suspend half way to his knees.  Truly an Italian stallion.  My Godd, I thought, what must his father be like!  I could only imagine how big he would be when he was hard.  Much bigger than me, without a doubt. Jason would be proud.

He had not stopped just to expose his manhood and tempt me.  He pissed like a race horse. When he was done he put everything away and we walked on.

“We have not said it, but you know why I want you to come.”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever done anything like that with another boy?”

“Only a few times with one of my friends. We help each other out by hand.”

“I will want to do more than that.”

“So do I but my friend won’t do it.

“Much more,” I said.

“I would like to do all you would teach me.”

“I will teach you everything you want to learn.”

“When?” he asked.

“Can you come this evening?”

“Yes. I will tell my parents I’m staying all night with a friend,” he offered.”

“That would be wonderful.”

We had come back through the olive grove, to the path.

“Angelo, I want to give you this,” I said as I took my money clip out and counted off bills totaling fifty dollars.  “This is not for coming to my villa. This is for your tip, and for the tour.  And to buy something for your grandmother.”  He started to refuse but I took his wrist and pressed the bills in his hand. “Our secret.  No argument,” I said.

I got back on the path and walked briskly up the hill to the villa.  He would be there at seven.

But I pause here to reflect.  Tuscany is another story to be told another time….or not to be told at all. 

The End