London, Manchester, Glasgow: Mauro was acquainted with a lot of people and was ready to take on any job to widen the distance between the life he had chosen and the one his father would have wanted for him. So when a little-known stroke magazine asked him to work in the hardcore field, Mauro set his pride aside and accepted.
Porno shoot.
Group sex full of thrusting and violence.
Porno shoot.
Four whores being mounted by a black stud.
“It’s not a problem,” Mauro had said.
The next day as he reported for the job, his liver hurt.
The premises had been furnished in superficial luxury. The furniture and varied knick knacks were in ersatz hi-tech style long overtaken by the whims of fashion.
Such unnecessary details, he thought as they all knew the only place they would be focusing on would be the bed. The bed was to be the main protagonist in this comedy, not all the shoddy details.
Mauro had slowly set out all his equipment, although he was aware that the others were impatient to get on with things. It was almost as if all they wanted was to have it all done with quickly so they could all go home.
Mauro no longer had a place of his own and was in no hurry. The four heavily made-up young women were already sprawled across the bed. Mauro ordered them to undress and spread their legs across the bed cover for some test shots. In reality he had no genuine need for these, but it was the first time he had been involved in a job like this and he needed more time to get the hang of things.
To find the right light? No. Maybe to get used to their shaven and open cunts, and be able to take these damn photos without being physically affected himself.
Mauro was nervous. Both nervous and also excited by what he could see. His erection was pressing against the tight zip of his leather trousers, as he suggested the black man strip, hoping that the sight of a naked man would temper his spirits.
Off came the shirt and tie, and then trousers and underpants. Yes, he could keep his gold chains on. A black naked stallion, with gold chains, quite a sight! Above all, his cock was huge. And the black guy’s penis was thick and hard, as if an instant confirmation of the urban legend about black men’s sexual superiority. This, together with the minimalist environment of the set and the pale skin of his future preys on the bed, brought the whole scene to life, in Mauro’s mind.
And the fucking was like a cocktail of movement and choreography. So much more different and arousing than the spineless groping and vulgarity he had first seen in the second-rate Italian porn films of his youth, featuring Moana, Luana and company.
The black man had no need to pretend; he knew he was the one in charge. And the way he held open the women’s gaping cunts just as he was about to impale them with his monstrous cock was all the evidence needed. He didn’t penetrate them, he broke them open, and as ever with a wide smile and gleaming white teeth.
Mauro’s hands were sweaty. Hypnotized by the spectacle he had stopped taking photographs and, right now, just watched the action, and the black guy’s radiant smile, the game of submission and power that was unfolding in front of his eyes. And the black man looked back at him. With a sneer across his face, he muttered something to Mauro, it sounded like, “Just do your damn job, the Italian…”, and his smile broke out again. His perfectly aligned teeth lit up his dark face. Mauro on the other hand was growing even paler. He thought he was a professional and now he was just some poor guy from the provinces doing a shitty job to earn enough to buy himself a flight back to Italy.
Return to Italy. Why not?
Mauro still had some contacts there. Friendships which could still prove useful.
Trevor’s exhibition could well be the right occasion. The Canadian was a generous man; he would surely lend him some money, and could maybe offer him some sort of decent job like preparing the catalogue for his next show.
Mauro felt it would be worth trying. It was just that he wasn’t quite ready to confront his father in sack cloth and ashes and having to apologize.
In London, I have no regular boyfriend.
From time to time I go with a younger man, probably the poorest of all those I serve at the restaurant. It’s not a complicated relationship, free of future commitments which might tie me down. I don’t even know what he does for a living, it’s of no matter to me. All I do is watch his taut muscles, his sculpted arms when he undresses. Naked, he is splendid. Next to him I know I look so plain.
5
Trevor had agreed to meet Mauro in a small café not far from the art gallery. The decor was all green marble, from ceiling to floor, absorbing the heat of the sun outside and muffling the sound of steps.
“New shoes?” Mauro asked.
“How did you guess?”
The two sat down at a table facing the street. The sound of the traffic outside reached them, noisy but also familiar.
“You look good,” Trevor said.
“So so. I could be worse. To be honest, I’ve lost everything, my house, my clothes, all my prints and the photographic equipment which had cost me a small fortune. But I’m not about to call it a day.”
“That’s a healthy attitude.”
Mauro tried to smile, but he had to force himself. Trevor’s reassuring words didn’t help him feel any better. Starting all over again was too painful a thought, and he just couldn’t do so on his own.
“I need your help, Trevor. I’m not asking for money, just help.”
“Is that why you asked to see me?”
“Yes,” Mauro confessed.
Trevor remained silent, sipping his coffee and listening to the sound of the cars hooting away outside as they stewed in a traffic jam.
“I’m not sure I can be of assistance,” Trevor finally said. “The exhibition has just come to an end and in a few days I am leaving for Canada.”
“Exactly. That’s what I wanted to talk about,” Mauro interrupted him. There was a hopeful ray of light inside his eyes.
“Let me go with you,” he continued. “In Canada we could do great things together.”
“Are you serious about this?”
“Definitely,” Mauro continued. “You and I together, like in the old days.”
Trevor closed his eyes, as if reflecting about what his friend had just said. But when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was hard, almost full of bitterness, and Mauro had to hold his breath. Before he even realized what was happening, the other’s fist flew into his face, throwing him to the ground.
A young woman at a nearby table screamed. Quickly various other customers came to Mauro’s rescue, helping him back onto his feet. He indicated to the others not to worry, that what had happened was unimportant, just as Trevor walked out of the bar.
He now stood alone just outside the door, waiting for Mauro to join him. He had a black eye but it wasn’t too painful.
“What the fuck was that all about?” he screamed. “They say I should call the police.”
But Trevor had no wish to talk. He knew it was better to surrender to all this noise outside. Noise is an abstract concept, it has a thousand faces but weighs nothing. Words were like stones and Mauro kept on questioning him. What a hypocrite.
“I know you fucked my wife,” Trevor said. And the quietness of his voice could not conceal his anger. Some words are heavier than others.
A second punch caught Mauro on the nose.
I don’t like love stories. And I don’t like poetry. Poets are stupid creatures who insist in ordering life into rhymes and embellishing it. But life is nowhere as beautiful as they want to make you think it is.