Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"Are you just going to leave me down here, or will you give me a hand up?"

Angelo looked around in shock, not seeing where the voice was coming from, complete nonplused to hear a voice at all. He was on his fishing boat, all alone, or so he thought, off the beaches below the villas of the rich foreigners strung along the Amalfi coast south of Postiano.

He had set his nets and then gone to the stern of the boat with his binoculars and scanned the beaches and the villas perched on the side of the mountains above as he liked to do. He told himself that he hadn't stationed the boat off of Doran Kokinos's villa on purpose, but, of course, he had. And in doing so, he had been rewarded.

Not long after taking up his station, he had seen activity on one of the villa's terraces and then the figure of a tall, well-built—and very well-equipped, he could see, because the man was naked—young man descending the stone steps between the villa and the beach. He had a beach towel over one arm and a canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

To Angelo's great interest, the young man engaged in a few aerobic exercises while standing next to the towel that he had unfurled on the beach in front of a sky-blue cabana tent.

After a few moments of surreptitious work with the binoculars, Angelo ascertained that It was the same blond man Angelo had seen at the café, sitting with Doran Kokinos, the previous evening.

Angelo laid down flat on his belly at the stern of the boat, with just the lens of the binoculars showing above the gunwales and watched the blond, who he thought of as "the American," do his calisthenics. The rough wood of the boat hull punished Angelo's bare chest, but unheeding of that, he unbuttoned the fly of his skimpy shorts, pulled out his hardening cock, encircled the staff with the hand that wasn't holding the binoculars, and moved his hips, letting the head of his cock rub across the pile of the netting in the bottom of the boat.

When the blond man turned and went into the cabana tent, Angelo realized that he should have pulled in his nets some time ago to see if he'd caught any fish and then set them again. It took him nearly a half an hour to do that, and he had just finished when he heard the voice.

"I say, you going to leave me just hanging onto the side?"

Angelo raced back to the stern of the boat. Two well-muscled, lightly tanned arms, emerging from the water next to the boat, were slung over the gunwales. He grabbed for the arms and helped the blond American climb on board the boat. He was naked and wet, but he had the canvas bag slung over his back by a string around his neck.

Both the surprise of his arrival and the beauty of his body took Angelo's breath away.

"You wouldn't happen to have a dry towel, would you?" he asked in broken Italian.

"Yes. Yes, I have. Just a minute," Angelo stammered.

"You speak English," the blond said, sounding quite relieved.

"I take in school. I go to America some day and I want to speak good American. You American?" he asked shyly.

"Yes, I'm American. And I'm shuddering from the cold water at the moment. It's a longer swim than I anticipated."

"Uh," Angelo muttered, still dumbfounded by the man's appearance and by the casual, comfortable attitude he was taking despite his nudity.

"The towel? You were going to find me a towel?"

"Yes, of course," Angelo stammered, as he back peddled toward the small cabin at the center of the boat.

When he came back, the American was still standing there, in a provocative pose, but he'd opened the canvas bag and extracted a bottle of liquor and a couple of plastic glasses. "I hope you don't mind Johnny Walker Red. It was the most ready at hand in Dodo's bar."

"Dodo?"

"Doran Kokinos. I believe you saw us at the café last night. He was very impressed with you. In fact, he'd like to meet you. I call him Dodo. For some reason he prefers that. He's Greek, you know. He probably doesn't know the connotation of that in the States. It does seem to suit him. But here I am, running on, and you're probably very thirsty from all of the fishing work you've been doing—not to mention the work with the binoculars."

Angelo had barely been able to keep up with what the American had been saying. He had no trouble understanding the part about binoculars, though, and he blushed from the realization he'd been caught as a voyeur. And he was even more nonplused to see that the American was hard and not seeming to be the least self-conscious about it.

And, yes, he knew Johnny Walker well, although he'd rarely been able to cage more than a couple of shots of it himself. The foreigners had it shipped in by the case during the Christmas season and handed bottles of it out as gratuities for those in the village who had supported their lifestyle with goods and services throughout the year. For two weeks after Christmas, in the new year, the Johnny Walker red became the gold standard of Positano and was filtered down in smaller bottles throughout the fabric of the town—until it was all gone until the next year. Angelo rarely got more than two shots of it himself in a year. And here the American—the beautifully built and handsome American of the open, broad smile—was offering to share an entire bottle with him.

"So, shall we drink and share sea stories?"

"Yes, if you wish," Angelo said shyly, trying not to look at the American's magnificent cock, but not being able to take his eyes away.

"Good. We talk and become better acquainted. I know that your name is Angelo. Mine is Brett. We drink . . . and talk . . . and then we fuck."

Angelo did a double-take and his jaw dropped to his chest. But the American did seem to notice or skip a beat.

"I'll fuck you, if you don't mind—unless you insist otherwise. Then we can go up to the house and you can meet Doran. He wants to fuck you too. Anyone ever tell you that you had a friggin' beautiful body and smile? You could be in movies."

"I'm . . . I'm sorry. I can't. I don't . . . I never. I will take you back to the beach in my small boat." Angelo had turned red in a blush and, without effort, taken on a crestfallen look that the American, Brett, couldn't help but understand as genuine surprise, consternation—and regret.

It was, perhaps the note of regret that helped Brett to brazen it through. "Sorry, dude, my mistake. I assumed when I saw you making out with the other guy last night—"

"We . . . weren't, how you put it, making out. Guido wants something I can't give him. It was nothing. You just saw a minute of mistake. Sorry. I take you back."

"No, I'm the one who is sorry. But you can't blame me for trying, and you looked like you were interested enough. And I say we don't burden your small boat with this bottle of Johnny Walker. Let's go ahead and polish it off as long as we're here. What do you say? And about that chap last night. You can't give him what he wants because he wants to be fucked? You know what that should mean to me, don't you?"

"You are confusing me. I don't know what it should mean."

"Well, then, let's back up a bit. Would you like to help me with this bottle of Johnny Walker or not?"

"Well . . . OK."