“But…” I glance between them, caught in a sudden panic at the prospect that Sir will leave again. It is not this slave’s virtue to make demands, but I just can’t help it. “I don’t want Sir to go.”
“I’ll come back,” Sir says, trying to appease me, but Master cuts him off.
“This slave must remember their place is to serve and be grateful for what is given to him. My goal, and yours too, Giovanni, should be to make Sir the best Dominant he can be. This is not a reflection on you or myself, simply a matter of course. I understand your feelings of attachment, but Silvio has the chance to train with ashibariMaster. Would you deny him this opportunity?”
“Yes,” I grumble. Absolutely. This slave is not feeling very charitable.
“Excuse me?” Master says.
“I would deny him,” I say defiantly, knowing there will be consequences but not caring in the least. “I don’t want him to go, and I don’t care about his training. I want him to stay here with me.” I nearly say,he’s mine, but I stop myself.
“Princess—” Sir begins but Master halts him with a raised hand.
“Giovanni, go to your box until I come for you.”
“I don’t want to be alone,” I snarl at him.
“Then stand in the corner and reflect on what you’ve just said to me in front of your Sir. We’ll talk in private after breakfast.”
I get up with attitude and shove my chair back from the table without bothering to tuck it under. I want to break something, smashallthe dishes, but this is not the demons. This is all me.
Only once I’ve been fuming in the corner for several minutes do I realize just how selfish I’m being, how greedy and lustful. I try to manifest Epictetus’ teachingsto accept and embrace the temporality of all things.I’ve had a perfect couple of months with two men who, if not love me, truly cherish me, and I’m acting like a spoiled brat.
All I can say is that Master’s last lesson to Sir is how to properly humble a slave.
Sir is awayin Milan and Master and I fall back into our familiar routines. It’s reassuring to me after such a tumultuous season. I earn a few more privileges—a smart phone that allows me to communicate with Sir via text as well as send pictures. Master says I’m not permitted to call him because he needs to focus on his training. He also says my obsession with sending Sir the most perfect picture of myself is both adorable and very vain, but he doesn’t make any attempts to curb my conceit.
I suppose that I do moon a little. I’ve been playing a lot of Brahms on the piano, which is something of a tell. To help me deal with the separation, Master suggests again that I get a job, and I agree to poke around in earnest. We wind up in a stationary shop that’s owned by a man older than my Master, and when I tell Master my intentions to apply for work, he teases me that I must have a grandpa fetish. That might be true, as I’ve always gravitated toward older men because I appreciate the sense of calm and stability they provide.
I’ve never had a job before, and I don’t do very well in my interview, butSignorMaggio agrees to hire me anyway. Unfortunately, I turn out to be pretty terrible at it. I get shy whenever customers come in and easily overwhelmed by their questions. I’m much better at stocking shelves and organizing inventory.SignorMaggio is patient with me, though. And when Master suggests that I bring in my cello and play for the customers when I need a timeout,SignorMaggio agrees. Then, at least when I’m not “working,” I’m still providing a service.
My playing is so well-received thatSignorMaggio sometimes stations me outside to lure in customers, and the café next door seems to appreciate my music as well, and the owner invites me to play on Friday and Saturday nights. When they learn I play piano too, a dance studio asks me to accompany some of the dancers during their recital performances. And one of the Catholic churches asks me to play piano for Sunday mass, which I do for free because I really don’t need the money.
And that’s how I become something of the island troubadour, which suits me far better than customer service.SignorMaggio even looks a little relieved when I tell him I can’t work for the store anymore because of all my regular gigs.
It’s only after I resign from the stationary-selling business that it occurs to me to ask Master, “Did you paySignorMaggio to employ me?”
Master smiles benevolently and says, “While I may have subsidized your employment in the beginning, I don’t anymore.”
Maybe I should be mad about it, but I chalk it up to being one of the many ways in which Master takes care of me.
And the nice thing about being the town troubadour is that Master can attend most of my performances, which I know he enjoys. It’s not to supervise me but because I ask him to be there. I play with more confidence when I know he’s listening, and he delights too in the praise people give me. I am a reflection of my Master’s virtues.
I make a couple of friends, all elderly. I like old people, so sue me. But now that I’m in with the church ladies, I get all sorts of pound cakes and ricotta pies. They also think Master is my uncle. Anthony started the rumor, probably the most intelligent thing he’s ever done, and I call Master by his first name in public. Master pays his staff well to be discreet, so it might be a while before they realize any different. In any case, I’ve had to tell my church lady friends that I’m considering priesthood in order to mitigate their many invitations to meet their granddaughters.
When I tell Master this, he just laughs and laughs.
For my birthday, Master takes me to visit Pompeii, and when I prompt him about the many pieces of erotic art that were discovered within the ruins and have since been restored, he suggests we go to Naples Secret Museum, which has been opened and shuttered over the years depending on the prevailing “morality” of the time. It’s where they keep the good stuff, and I highly recommend a visit. Here you will find a marble sculpture of the well-hung satyr named Pan ass-fucking a goat that rivals Bernini’s statues, a fresco of a nymph shoving her entire fist into a satyr’s mouth, countless depictions of the god Priapus, known for the colossal size of his cock, and an entire room of dicks mounted on the walls. There’s also a collection of tiny terracotta men with obscenely huge pricks that pour oil from their slits, the purpose for what I can only assume is ass-fucking. There’s so much blatant homoeroticism on display that I marvel at how sexual intimacy between males was once so revered by a culture that they carved it in marble and stone. So much of it was lost or destroyed because of shifting attitudes and toxic masculinity, and it makes me sad.
I share this with Master and he says, “You are an old soul, Giovanni. Practically ancient.”
“Would you have taken me as youreromenos?” I ask, referring to the Greek custom of pederasty, where a man mentored an older adolescent boy in both philosophy and sexuality as he transitioned into manhood.
“At the proper age of consent, yes,” Master says, always so careful to draw that distinction.
“Would you have lavished me with gifts and courted me in the way of freeborn men?” I ask, harkening back to my knowledge of the practice.
“Don’t I do that every day?” Master teases. “I would have pursued you ruthlessly and claimed you in front of my countrymen as I did at your collaring ceremony.”
