My blood pressure went up ten notches. Giordano and the attendant spoke rapidly in Italian, as the tray was laid on the little table by the window, and I stood there like a tree with deep roots. The attendant brushed past me as he backed out, and I think he felt me up, but I wasn't sure. It could have been only an accident. I wasn't hard or anything, but my jeans don't work that well with boxers, and my dick hangs kinda low on the left. "Enjoy," said the attendant, or something like that, and he closed the door behind him, forcing Giordano into my arms. It didn't take much. We kissed for what seemed like two hours.
I could never have got enough of his kisses, I think. The lips so soft yet strong, the tongue sparring with mine as it explored, cajoled my tongue into ecstasy. I was so horny, my nuts hurt, and my dick was probably spurting like mad. Another knock came on the door, and the attendant opened it just as we pulled apart. Jon looked down at my crotch and then back up to me with a big grin. "I've reserved a table at eight," he said. "It's the best time to see the mountains. Very romantic." Giordano spouted something out in Italian, and Jon smiled and left without another word. "What did you say to him," I asked. "I told him you were mine alone, and that he should not take any liberty or get any thoughts about being with you," he said very seriously. "He understands now."
"Oh," I said. "I wouldn't do anything with him, anyway. I am interested only in . . . "
"Me."
or "Yes."
"It is good. Let us drink some wine and enjoy the land." We sat and looked out the window in between sips of wine, kisses, caresses and long gazes into one another's eyes. Jon had put a bag of little peanuts on the tray, and we ate a few of them as well. We touched one another constantly, always avoiding the main prize for one reason or another. I raped him repeatedly in my subconscious, but treated him honorably all the same. He was then twenty-nine years of age, to my twenty-three, and knew more of the joy of building anticipation before making love. I wanted tear his clothes from his body, ravish him on the floor, feel his legs pull me into him, touch his soul with the tip of my dick, fill him with my juices, now under so much pressure they might just penetrate all the way to his heart.
I had it bad. At seven fifty-five, precisely, came the announcement for the first class dining car second service, and we went forward two cars to the well appointed dining car, white linen, crisp white shirts and black trousers with black bow ties on very attractive young men, and two pretty women with white blouses and black skirts. We had a table for two, and sat just as we were leaving Como, at the foot of the lake of the same name. We were already in the Alps, in Switzerland, and the sun was getting low in the sky, casting huge shadows from the towering peaks. I can not adequately express the beauty of the next few hours. My vocabulary simply isn't adequate to the challenge.
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We sipped a glass of champagne as the train glided almost silently up the grades, giving us views down into valleys of breathtaking depth and bright color, patterns of fields and specks that were cattle. Little houses looked like they had been designed by Disney, so pristine they could not possibly be lived in. Great peaks towered over us, and long tunnels promised more rapturous views as soon as we burst through them.
Two small quail on a bed of lettuce composed the entrée, their succulent flesh redolent of berries and the port used in braising. Giordano ordered half a bottle of a nice white wine, a Pouilly Fumé, for the Entrée and first course, and we sipped it slowly, savouring the tastes, the scenery, the touch of our legs. The waiter brought a St. Emilion red wine and uncorked it for us, to let it build its strength for later. The waiter said it would be a shame to let a Cheval Blanc race without training, but I had no idea of what he was saying. Cheval Blanc was the maker of the wine, I noticed later. Small dover soles in mornay sauce with baby green asparagus comprised the first course, and we talked and gazed into each other's eyes when we could tear our eyes from the vista. At one point we spoke of the rarity of love, and he pressed his leg harder into mine, and a tiny tear glistened in the corner of his right eye, then was gone. We talked more between courses, and felt ourselves lifted higher and higher, trying to evade the lengthening shadows, escape the night for a time.
We sipped the rest of the Pouilly Fumé, and spoke of family and friends, of dreams and ambitions. We broke through a pass, and looked down to a church on a pinnacle, perhaps a thousand feet below, and it sparkled in the rays of the sun, a castle Disney could never hope to emulate on a crag only God could have built. The red wine was poured for Giordano to taste, and he said it was good. I took a small amount into my mouth, and it was like no wine I had ever tasted, rich, succulent, smooth and deep, and I understood at last what the wine snobs said about "fruity" tastes in wine. We toasted our luck just before the main course, medallions of venison with thin wisps of french fries, the smallest broccoli and brussels sprouts I'd ever seen, and some sort of squash, yellow-orange, with nutmeg and perhaps cream.
We went through a tunnel, and I saw the church on the pinnacle again, but it was higher, closer. We were descending, somehow going round in a circle. I was getting pleasantly full, and ate only half of the venison, but all the vegetables. Giordano accepted the two medallions I didn't want, and gave me his squash. The church was there again, but now a few feet above us, and the almost-horizontal rays of the sun hit the cross at the top and made it gleam like gold. We sat after the meal, having declined dessert -- although I was tempted, because I had always heard of crêpes suzettes. Giordano asked that the wine be corked and taken to our compartment, as we could not finish it before we had brandy. I was getting a little tipsy, I'm not sure if from the wine or from my hormones. Snifters of cognac came, poured from a bottle at table and set upon holders with a candle under the bulbous part of the snifter.
The waiter twirled the glasses slowly, heating the amber liquid within. The bottle said "Napoléon." Giordano's leg against mine was making my loins ache. The sun set suddenly, as we went through another tunnel, and came out in the dark shadows, the sky overhead a deep blue, no clouds to form a sunset. The train picked up speed, and we went north, the sun peeking for a tiny fraction of an instant through the valley between two huge peaks, not to be seen again, and twilight seemed t accelerate into darkness. Giordano took the snifters from the waiter, handing one to me. Not even waiting for the waiter to leave, he said "to our love," and clinked my glass gently with his, the light from the candles making his eyes sparkle, magnetic.
The waiter didn't bat an eyelid, just taking the leftover dishes and things from the table. I sipped the warm brandy, and it was like hot gold to taste, sending warmth through my nostrils, down my throat, through my every nerve and muscle. We stopped talking, and just looked into each other's eyes, and read books about longing, dreaming, wanting, hoping, praying. We squeezed our legs tightly together, and I felt the grip he was taking on my heart. The couple at the table next to us got up and left. I looked up into the eyes of the wife, and they sparkled with her smile. She said something in French, and I just smiled back, and they left.
I looked back at Giordano, and he translated "Young love is so beautiful to see." I wondered that some people could be so caring, and others so cruel. We finished the brandy, ever so slowly. It was pitch dark outside, there was nothing to see, and yet I wanted it to go on, was almost afraid of going back to the compartment, almost worried that by . . . "doing it" . . . I risked ending the dream. "It is time," Giordano said, and I paid the bill with a stack of Lira, leaving what I thought was a nice tip for the staff.
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