“I might like that.”
“Do you want to be baptized again? Or attend mass? I’d be happy to go with you.” I haven’t been to church in a long while, and even when I went, it was mostly for appearances-sake, though I still tithe to Matthew Sr.’s church in his name. That said, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to help him along.
He frowns, then says, “I’ve lost my faith in religion, as I’ve lost my faith in humanity. I don’t think I can reach God through church anymore. I used to pray…” He stalls, likely thinking on his time spent in captivity, nine weeks of a living hell when his mother kidnapped him in an attempt to extort money from his grandfather. The one thing Matthew Sr. did, or failed to do, that I fought with him vehemently was when he refused to pay Giovanni’s ransom. The money wasn’t the issue. It was the cursed Aponte pride. Matthew Sr. didn’t want to give that Russian bitch the satisfaction of winning, and Giovanni paid dearly for it.
“What has He ever done for me?” Giovanni asks softly.
If he’s looking for reassurance, I’m afraid I cannot offer it. I too lost my religion at a young age, when my mother was stabbed to death in our family’s pharmacy. It happened right in front of me. I held her as she died. The robber was connected to the mafia who owned the local police, so the crime went unpunished. I joined a rival gang. My mother’s murderer became my first kill and my initiation into the life.
“I’m sorry to say I suffer a similar lack of faith,” I tell Giovanni, and he only nods somberly.
After dinner we retire to my study so that I may look over some contracts my lawyer sent for an upcoming development while Giovanni reads at my side. My feet are up on the leather ottoman and Giovanni plays idly with my socked foot, as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. I watch him for a moment, sucking on his lower lip while engrossed in his book, then return my attention to the tedious legalese. A few minutes later, Giovanni’s hand has migrated up my pants so that it’s nearly above the knee. I adjust my legs as a subtle reminder, but his fingers only slide closer to my crotch, to the inside of my thigh and inches away from my lengthening cock. My libido responds enthusiastically. I clear my throat and nudge his underarm with my toe. When he glances up, he is the picture of innocence. Only the hand doesn’t move.
“Excuse you.” I nod at his wandering appendage.
“Does this bother you?” He strokes upward and my hips lift, trying to chase the sensation.
I press my lips tightly together, shocked at his gall and my own lack of control. It’s been a while since I’ve been seduced, if that’s what this is. I’m still not entirely sure there’s any method to his ploy or if his sense of boundaries is truly that distorted. His hand skates over my erection, lightly, as if it could somehow be interpreted as an accident.
“You’re touching my dick,” I tell him. My paperwork is all but forgotten.
“I was touching your leg too.” He blinks.
I take hold of his hand and place it back in neutral territory, far away from my now-awakened cock. “Are you trying to seduce me, Giovanni?” I am stunned by his boldness. He only shrugs. “Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“I wanted to say thank you for having me here.”
“By fondling me?”
“I could blow you too.”
He licks his lips and I stare purposefully at his eyes. I consider what he’s been through recently and the sexual trauma even farther back. “I invited you to come live with me because I care about you, and I want you to take some time to heal, not because I expect you to…” I swallow, “pleasure me in any way.”
“I thought you liked men.”
HeknowsI like men. He’s even met some of my past lovers. “That’s beside the point.”
“You don’t think I’m attractive?”
He plays the jilted lover convincingly enough, but I am well-versed in these sorts of maneuvers. What can I say so as not to lead him on or reject him too harshly? “I think you are a beautiful young man, emphasis onyoung, and I do not wish to take advantage of you in this vulnerable situation, so I think we should limit our physical interactions to what is appropriate for friendship.”
“What about when we shower together?”
“Our bathing rituals and sharing meals and even our sleeping arrangements are to build intimacy and trust. I want you to feel safe and comfortable with me. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”
“I don’t want you to go changing anything.” He eyes me with suspicion. “I don’t want to sleep in my own bed or shower alone.”
“Very well, then we won’t changeanything.”
He appears to mull it over, his sharp intellect likely looking for holes in my logic. “Do you know of the practice of pederasty in ancient Greece?” he says.
“Where a man takes a boy lover?”
“They were adolescents at the age of sexual maturity, but yes. It was how young men became civilized in the ways of philosophy, art, and sexuality. They traded theirpudicizia, their sexual virtue, for the protection of an older, wiser man.”
“I see,” I say and resist the urge to loosen my collar.
“Achilles and Patroclus were in a pederastic relationship, as were Alexander the Great and his Persian eunuch Bogoas, who is said to have both stirred his passions and sated his lusts.”
