The Land Whore - 11. Chapter 11

May 11, 1973

I boarded the big 747 in San Francisco. They didn't fly planes that big out of San Jose, nor did they have a direct flight to Paris, but San Francisco did, and that's how I found myself here, this morning, going back to France for the first time in 11 years.

Things at home had gotten weird and tense on all fronts. Roger was totally unwilling to discuss his mother or his jailed father, which I found intensely irritating and I made sure he knew how I felt. JP and Isidore were at their wits end trying to deal with the convulsions at Crampton Construction, so they were no fun. That and I'd already been dodging calls from JP's father and Tonto, both trying to make me a pawn in this corporate tug of war. And until my first few deals were registered, there was nothing for me to do in LA. So I decided to put all of these people and their problems behind me and go face my past demons.

I booked a first class seat which gave me access to the upstairs lounge, so as soon as we took off I headed up the stairs to get a drink. I'd smoked one of Roger's Hawaiian joints on the way to the airport, so a few drinks ought to knock me out for the flight. There was an empty seat next to a really handsome businessman. He stood up briefly to adjust his brown jacket with its wide lapels, showing off his six feet of height in the process. Then he turned to adjust his seat, flashing me a look at his cute ass accentuated by his tight brown pants with their huge bell bottoms. A wild tie and long, black hair completed the picture, nicely framing his narrow face. I sat next to him and ordered a Bloody Mary. Seemed the right thing to do this early in the morning.

“Hi, I'm Vic Boroni,” he said, extending his hand.

“Stefan Schluter,” I said, taking his hand and flashing him my “fuck me” smile.

We chatted casually for quite a while. He was involved in marketing for a big computer company. I think he said IBM, but I was too busy ogling his body to pay attention to chit chat. I had quite a few drinks and realized that I was getting tipsy, especially when I spilled one on my lap. He wasn't exactly sober either, and he instinctively reached over with a napkin to dab up the liquid which put his hand right on top of my hard cock. He didn't move it at first, so I took the opportunity to reach down and hold it there, pressing it against my hardness.

“It looks like I need to go to the bathroom and try to get this stain out. Are you any good at stains?” I asked.

“I can try to help,” he said and followed me into the bathroom. We were careful not to be spotted since it was still daylight. As soon as we got into the bathroom I sat on the seat and unzipped his zipper. I took out his hardening cock and stroked it to a full erection, about six inches long. He moaned and leaned back and let me take him in my mouth, working my magic. It was a long flight, and we had lots of time, so I worked him with my mouth, keeping him on the edge while I masturbated myself. Finally I gave him relief and finished him off, and his expression of bliss was enough to set me over the edge as I shot my load in the toilet.

“Thanks Stefan,” he said. “Didn't help you with your stain though.”

I giggled. “No problem. Wake me up later if you need further, er, assistance.” We left the bathroom together, prepared to be defiant, but no one was there to see us. I went to my seat and reclined, dozing peacefully until two hours from Paris when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I gave Vic another blow job and still had time left over to spruce up and eat breakfast. What a great flight.

I picked a nice hotel on the Rue Rivoli, right across from the Tuileries, and immediately crashed. I knew it would be better to stay awake, but I was tired, so I showered and slept. The activities of the past month or so, combined with the stress, must have really worn me out, because I went to bed at 11am and didn't wake up until 9am the next morning. I felt great. Rested and revived.

May 13, 1973

I couldn't wear my normal clothes. I dressed pretty chic, it was just my way, but if I was going to go wandering around the east side, I'd need to look grittier. I went out and sat at a cafe eating breakfast, watching the locals, trying to pick up on what I should wear. Then I went to a second-hand shop near the hotel and picked up some clothes. Dark, dreary looking things, but it was better to blend in than to stand out.

I took the Metro out to Bellevue and wandered the streets that I'd known so well as a child: The local baker that I'd thought was such a great guy for selling us bread on credit until I found out he made my mother fuck him for it. The grocer who always gave me a dirty look when I was in there, even though I never stole anything like the other kids. And the nasty apartment that I'd lived in. I walked into the building and up the familiar stairs. The putrid smells that had seemed normal before offended my nostrils. I paused outside the door to my old apartment and felt a tear run down my face. A tear for my mother, who loved me, and wore out her body to keep us both alive. Then I left. There was nothing there for me anymore.

I spent the day wandering the streets, taking in the familiar sights, noticing the changes. There were more Arabs in the neighborhood now, and they gave me dirty looks as I walked by. I don't know why I was there. I don't know what I was looking for. Closure? Perhaps. But as it got later, being there was just stupid, so I took the Metro back to the Tuileries and had dinner at a cafe.

I steeled myself for the next step, a visit to the tunnel. I pretended that there was no reason to be nervous, but I was. I wandered along the Seine until I found the underground pedestrian tunnel that was still a notorious gay cruising area. I walked slowly into the tunnel, ignoring the lustful looks that I got, wandering deeper and deeper into its cavern, as it got darker and darker. Eventually there were lots of guys and only a dim light. The air reeked of semen.

I stopped and leaned against the wall, letting my eyes adjust and allowing the memories to flood back into my brain. The first time I'd done a trick was here, with a fat married man. He'd been mercifully brief, and tipped me well. Another encounter with a well-hung sailor had damn near put me out of commission, but then I'd met Marc Sievres. Marc had taken me under his wing, showed me how to use my body, how to enjoy sex with a man, how to block out that it was someone I didn't want to be with and pretend it was someone I did want. He'd done all that and made me fall in love with him, then he'd used that love to manipulate me and pimp me out. Only I couldn't be mad at him for that. It was the life that I had to choose, he'd merely helped me to survive and thrive at it, and he was there to protect or console me when things didn't go well. In exchange, I paid him with my money and my body.

Slowly I moved further into the tunnel and saw a boy, only 15 or 16, trying to attract the men. They were taunting him, slapping his ass. He was taunting them right back. He reminded me of my friend Henri, the only friend I'd really had in Paris. He wasn't meant for this life, he was too sensitive, too caring. I shuddered at what must have become of him. This boy seemed the same way. He was here, trolling for dick, not like some of the guys who would do it for free because they wanted to, but because he had to. The sight brought the past flowing back, and it sickened me.

I moved into the tunnel and up to the young boy. “Spend the night with me,” I said to him.

“How much will you pay me?” he asked impudently, just like Henri would have.

I whispered in his ear and told him I'd give him a hundred dollars, and he nodded and followed me out of the tunnel, the jeers from his jilted customers chasing us. Neither one of us said anything as we walked around the gardens and headed to my hotel.

“What is your name?” I demanded.

“Julien,” he replied with his own attitude. We walked into the hotel and he got some dirty looks from the staff, but he was immune so long as he was with me. I took him up to my room and he inhaled loudly, impressed at its size and luxury, even though it wasn't one of the better hotel suites in Paris. We just stood there, staring at each other.

Finally he broke the impasse by slowly stripping off his clothes. He had dark brown hair and a cute face. He was no beauty, but he was handsome in a boyish kind of way. He had almost no hair on his upper body save under his arms and a barely visible treasure trail. His pants were next. He had skinny, hairy legs, and a nice sized bush of pubes, and a dick that was limp, completely limp. He was a strange looking young guy, not hairy on top, very hairy on the bottom. I turned him around and found that his ass had fortunately missed out on the hair as well.

“You like?” he asked in what he must have thought was a seductive voice.

“You are a very handsome man, Julien. My name is Stefan.” I shook his hand, feeling strange that I was clothed and he was not. “How old are you?”

“How old do you want me to be?” he retorted, the standard reply of a hustler.

“I want to know how old you really are,” I said.

“Fifteen,” he said. I looked into his eyes to see if he was lying or not, and he seemed to be truthful. “So what are you into?”

“First, I want you to take a shower.” I led him to the bathroom.

“You like your boys squeaky clean?” he teased. “You going to join me?” I shook my head, even though I was tempted.

“Maybe later. Then after you shower we will eat some food.” I grabbed the room service menu while he showered and asked him what he wanted. On my way out to place the call to room service I stumbled over his pants. I pulled out his wallet and looked at it. There were only a few Francs in it, and his identification. He told the truth about his age. Julien Vareil. Living in Bellevue. Just like me. I put a few hundred Francs in his wallet and slid it back into his pants, and then I ordered tons of food from room service.

He came out a few minutes later with his hard cock poking out and up. He was nice sized, about six inches and a normal width, but he was also circumcised, something that was rare in France. Was he a Jew?

“I'm not a Jew,” he said defensively. “The hospital where I was born circumcised me by mistake.”

“I do not care if you are a Jew or not,” I said. I handed him a robe.

“You don't want to fuck me?” he asked. “What's the deal?”

“I bought you for the night. I want to get to know you first. It is my money and my night. Do not piss me off, or you will end up tossed back out on the streets.” I regretted the words as soon as I said them. “I'm sorry Julien. Just relax and we will have some food.” As if on cue the waiter arrived. He laid out the food while he kept stealing glimpses at Julien. Julien was having fun teasing him, and at one point he pulled his foot up to look at his toes (or so it seemed) which provided the waiter with a direct view of his still swollen cock and balls. When the waiter finally left, there was a noticeable tent in his pants. I giggled.

We shut up and ate. Julien shoveled food into his mouth like a starving man, and as skinny as he was, that may not be far off the mark. I watched him and his cute boyish features, thinking back to my old life and how I'd coped. He had started later than I had, but he was obviously still a rookie.

“Have you been with many guys?” I asked.

“Enough. You want to fuck around or what?”

“Not really. I used to be you, years ago. I did not pick you up for sex; I just thought you could use a break, a shower, some food.”

He looked pissed. “Look, I'm working. I need money.”

“There's money in your wallet,” I said

He looked in his wallet, counted the cash and smiled. “Well, thanks for the food and the cash.” And then he was gone.

May 14, 1973

When I left France, Marc was the only person I'd kept in touch with. But after a few calls I could tell that he had moved on, and I was busy, so we'd lost touch. I wasn't sure what kind of reception I'd get, but I could not come back to Paris and not see him. I'd wandered around the Latin Quarter for an hour and a half until I finally tracked him down, or at least his office. I had my normal clothes on, and there wasn't a receptionist on duty, so no one questioned me as I wandered back into the office area. I finally found a closed door with a plate that simply said “Professeur Sievres.”

I knocked on the door and didn't hear a response, so I gently opened it and peered in. Marc was there, older now, with his head on his desk sound asleep. I giggled. He'd probably been out all night and was making up for it now. I slammed the door and brought him out of his slumber.

His eyes were bleary, the eyes of someone who has a hangover, and they looked at me carefully. It was as if I could watch his brain accessing his data files, trying to figure out who I was. “Stefan?” he finally asked.

“It is good to see you Marc. You do not mind me just dropping in?” He was across the desk and I was in his strong arms in no time. He reeked of alcohol and sweat, but he was still as sexy as ever. Tall, well built, with dark hair and a sexy, masculine Adam's apple that protruded proudly from his thick neck.

“It's good to see you too. I have missed you, my friend.” He backed up and looked at me, and then his lips were on mine, his hands were exploring my body, and our clothes were falling to the floor as if by magic.

He lubed my ass and entered me from behind, driving into me roughly like I enjoyed. Marc was the ultimate lover. “God I missed your sweet ass,” he moaned, and I giggled again. Then he turned me over so I was on my back and he held my ankles while he drove into me. He was fixated on my throbbing cock, and he watched it grow and expand, and just when I thought I might cum, he backed off and tenderly kissed my lips, my neck, my chest, my nipples, keeping me on the edge. Then when I'd calmed a bit, he was back at it, this time from behind me, and this time he stroked me in unison with his thrusts to make sure we achieved our orgasms at the exact same time. We lay there on top of his desk, books and papers all over the room as we'd shoved them off to make room for our exertions, panting in an attempt to catch our breath.

“Sex with you is like no other,” he said to me seductively.

“Bah. You are the master,” I responded.

“So what brings you back to Paris after all these years?”

“I needed to face my past and I plan to bring my nephew here this summer, so I thought I should do that first.”

“And what demons did you face?”

“I wandered through Bellevue, through the tunnel, and in my mind I relived my life here. It was not happy, but it was not horribly sad either. And I wanted to come see you.”

“And why did you want to come see me?” he asked playfully.

“Because there was a time when I was totally in love with you. I wanted to see if I still felt that way.”

He smiled. “And do you?”

“I do not think so, but I think that it would not be a good idea for me to stick around and find out. Besides, you never loved me, and you never will, so it is a sad, hopeless quest anyway.”

“I am like you my friend,” he said soothingly, “so to the degree that I am capable of loving one person, I loved you, and part of me always will.”

“I'm wondering why, if you loved me, you encouraged me to go sell my body and stay at home with my mother. Why you did not take me in and keep me for yourself.”

He studied me. “That is the real demon you face. You want to know how, if I loved you, I could pimp you out? Search your soul. You love sex. So do I. It was our job. I could no more stop you from fucking other people than I could stop the sun from rising, so why not profit from it, eh?”

“That's not it. I seem to be incapable of loving one person, of being in love and being faithful. I'm trying to decide if I am that way because of me or because of you.”

“And what have you decided?”

I thought about it. “I do not know, but it would be much easier to blame you.”

“Stefan, you are a wonderful, caring, loving person. You give so much to others, so much pleasure. Why is that a bad thing? Why is that a flaw?”

“Because I want to be happy and satisfied with someone that I love, and I cannot.”

“Why do you want this? You are not happy in the United States with your friends and family? Do they not give you the love you need? You are sexual, you are vibrant, you find someone you like and you fuck them. You would give that up?”

“I do not know,” I said. And I didn't. Roger's words haunted me. “You do not only want me,” he'd said, or something like that. And he was right.

I looked at Marc carefully and I knew that I am who I am, and not because of him. I smiled at him. “I leave tomorrow to go home, but it was good to see you. Maybe when I am back this summer we can meet again.” I kissed him on the lips, a goodbye kiss.

“Maybe we can,” he said. I'd closed a door on my life, on my past, and he was on the other side of it. For now, at least.

It was afternoon, a beautiful day, so I took the Metro back to the Tuileries and wandered around the gardens, enjoying Paris and the Parisians. I was about to head to the Champs Elysees to do some shopping when my attention was attracted by a scuffle in the bushes.

“Give it to me or I will beat you to a pulp,” said the older voice.

“No. Fuck off. It's mine,” said a much younger voice. I walked through the bushes, making lots of noise, and they both looked at me, nervous and irritated. On the left, closest to me, was a young man, probably around 16 years old, and he looked like he'd already been worked over pretty bad. In front of him was an old drunk guy, looking menacing to the young guy, but not to me.

“Be gone you old drunk, or the gendarmerie will haul you off,” I said severely. I learned a long time ago to inhale and fill out my chest to make myself seem bigger in a confrontation.

“This is none of your business,” he slurred. “This young boy was just going to loan me some money, just a loan.”

“He is not a bank, but he is with me,” I said to the bum. “Come along,” I said to the young guy, and he followed me dutifully. The drunk let us go with a sigh of frustration.

As soon as we were clear of the bushes, the boy stopped. “Thank you monsieur. I can take care of myself from here on out.”

“Indeed? I am not so sure. Join me for lunch. It looks like you have not eaten for awhile,” I said. He wanted to escape back to whatever world he came from, but he was hungry, and food won him over in the end.

Still, caution reared its head again. “I am not a rent boy,” he said indignantly. His tone suggested that he wasn't far from becoming one.

“That is perfect then, since I am not looking for one.” I guided him to the Rue Rivoli and the cafe I'd adopted and let him eat whatever he wanted. When we walked into the cafe he instinctively took off his cap, a gesture upper class people mastered and others ignored.

I sat across from him munching on my jambone beurre sandwich. Now that his hat was off, his face was visible, and he was handsome, very handsome. Gorgeous in fact. Light brown hair and matching light brown eyes. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about him that I couldn't quite put my finger on. And he had big bruises around his eyes. Someone had beaten the crap out of this kid. “I am Stefan,” I said in my friendliest tone. “You are?”

“Armand,” he said simply, and then returned to his food.

“So what brings you to Paris Armand?” I asked.

He looked at me skeptically again. “I am from Paris.”

“You think I am a fool? You do not speak like a Parisian, you do not act like a Parisian, and you are obviously not thriving as a Parisian or you would not have black eyes.”

“I got the black eyes before I got to Paris,” he said, and realized that he'd just blown his story. “I am from Brittany. My parents decided that I should not live with them anymore, so coming to Paris seemed like the logical thing to do.”

“How old are you?”

I had struck a nerve. “I do not have to answer your questions. Who are you to quiz me like this? My age does not matter.”

“How old are you?” I repeated calmly.

“I am 18,” he said, lying.

“You are lying.”

“Fuck you. It's none of your business anyway,” he said with the anger of a cornered young man.

“You have identification? Hand it over. Now,” I said firmly. I didn't think that in a million years he'd do it, but he did. He handed me a passport. A street urchin would not have a passport.

The passport had an older picture of him, but it was obviously him nonetheless. He was Armand de Guipry, age 16. He'd be 17 in a few months. There was more to this kid than he was letting on. And that name was familiar, I just couldn't place it. A name with a 'de' in front of it indicated that its bearer came from a family that was, or had once been noble. I continued to study him, and he shrunk under my scrutiny.

“OK, now give me back my passport. I have to go,” he said. I was about to hand it back but I stalled. He was becoming irritated, but I didn't care. I felt the wheels in my mind turning and then the answer came through loud and clear. Of course! Those brown eyes! I'd only seen one other person with those eyes: Isidore. And her maiden name was de Guipry.

“You are not going anywhere. You and I are going to go back to my hotel room and have a talk, and you are going to take a shower.”

“Fuck you, I'm no rent boy, I told you that.” He was getting violent and making a scene.

“You are from Brittany. You are a de Guipry. Do you know Isidore de Guipry?” Now I had his attention.

“I have an aunt named Isidore, but I have not seen her in years, since I was a child. She lives in the United States.”

“She lives with me. We are good friends.” I took out my wallet and pulled out a picture of our family. “You see, there is your aunt and those three are her children.”

“Are you her husband?”

“No. She is married to my cousin,” I said, pointing to JP. “So now will you come with me and let me try and help you?” He nodded and we headed to the hotel and my room.

“You are not married?” he asked.

“No. I am a homosexual,” I told him candidly. I did not hide it from anyone, so why should I hide it from him. “Does that bother you?”

He giggled. “No, it does not bother me. But it explains why you are trying so hard to get me to go to your room.”

I blushed and stammered until I realized the little shit was teasing me. I put my arm around his shoulders in a friendly manner and he blanched. At first I thought it was because I was gay, but I realized soon enough that he was in pain.

We got back to my hotel room and he took it in with no great enthusiasm. He was not unfamiliar with nice places. He went into the bathroom and began to strip. He left the door open, so after I heard him enter the shower I went in and gathered up his clothes. They stank from sweat and urine, probably not his, but it was gross anyway. I checked his sizes. I was way too big for him, but with a belt and a few cuffs we might be able to make him presentable enough to go shopping. I had a pair of briefs that were too small for me, so I put them in a stack for him. I was still rummaging through my things for clothes for him when he came out wearing only a towel and took my breath away.

His long brown hair hung limp and wet, but that only accentuated the perfect features of his face and the sparkling magnetism of his eyes. His body was well-formed for a young man. He was thin, but with obvious muscle tone beneath his taut young skin. He was hairless like Julien, except his legs were only slightly hairy. He was a perfect male specimen, a man that should model, or just be allowed to walk around naked to show off his perfect form. Then I looked beyond the beauty and saw the bruises, the dark blotches on his chest.

“You are staring,” he said with a malicious sneer.

“You are beautiful,” I said, unflustered. “Turn around.”

He obliged, and there were huge bruises on his back, and lacerations that reminded me of the marks Jason had left on me when he'd used that belt all those years ago. I moved up to him and gently touched his back, causing him to cringe.

“You have been badly beaten. Is anything broken?”

He turned around so he was facing me. “I do not think so, although my ribs hurt pretty bad.” I sat on the bed and brushed my fingers gently across the ribs and he cringed again. I really didn't know if they were broken or not, but even if they were, it was not like they were sticking out of his skin. He shifted his feet uncomfortably and I looked down to see his towel tenting out. I giggled. “Do you have my clothes?” he asked, irritated.

“Here, try these,” I said, handing him the stuff I'd picked out. He turned around to put on the briefs, giving me a quick view of his ass. It was hairless and perfect just like the rest of him. Then he put on the rest of the stuff.

“These clothes do not fit me,” he said. “Let me put my old clothes back on.”

“Smell them,” I said, and he curled up his nose in disgust and then smiled.

“I see your point.”

“I'm sure you're hurting pretty bad, but do you feel up to shopping? We can find some things that fit you and you can throw those away,” I said gesturing to his smelly, nasty couture. He smiled and followed me out onto the street. We headed up to the Champs Elysees and had an absolute blast shopping.

Armand has the body of a model, so almost anything he put on looked great. I spent a small fortune on clothes for both of us, until we were so tired we could go no further. A cab to the hotel and the sanctuary of our room was unbelievably welcome. I put my aching feet up on a stool and Armand came over and massaged them for me. It felt so good and it was such a thoughtful gesture.

“I do not have money to pay you back for all the clothes you bought me,” he said. He moved his hands from my feet to my calves, and then to my thighs, and before I could stop him, to my groin. “I can show you my appreciation in other ways though.”

I was hard as a rock and he felt good, but I summoned all of my self-control and pulled him off of me. “I do not require appreciation other than a thank you. You are like family. Plus I have had a really good time with you, and you have a perfect body so everything looks good on you.”

He blushed. “Well thank you,” he said. And then he returned his hands to my hard cock and had my zipper down before I knew what was happening. My brain said stop, and it said it most urgently, but his hand on my cock, then his mouth, overrode all of my objections. I lay back and let him do his work, and he was good, really good. In no time at all I was blowing my load down his throat. And feeling really guilty as soon as I did.

“Thanks,” he said. “I've wanted to do that since I first met you in the park.”

“Do you not think it's about time you told me why you are here in Paris with no money, no clothes, and are all alone?” I needed to change the subject and complete this story.

“My father found me doing what I just did to you to one of my friends. He said that no son of his was a faggot, and that I must be a bastard. He beat me, badly, and threw me out of his house. Told me never to come back. My friend was lucky enough to escape, although I do not know what happened to him.” A tear fell down his cheek. “I do not care about leaving home. My father is a mean, brutish man. But I will miss my brother and my sister. They are normal, not like me, though, so they should be just fine.”

“Normal?” I asked.

“My brother likes girls, and my sister likes boys.”

“That does not make them normal. You seem normal to me.” He smiled and hugged me. I returned his hug gently, not wanting to hurt his injured body. “So what do you plan to do now?”

He looked at me hard and swallowed. “I was kind of hoping you'd take me with you.” That was asking an awful lot. He was still a minor, after all. But he did have his passport.

“I am not sure if they will let you leave the country, but if you want, I am willing to try. I will book a ticket for you and tell everyone you are my nephew. As long as your parents have not reported you as missing, or the police are not after you, you should be OK. When we get to the US, we will see what we can do to keep you there.” He grinned and hugged me again.

“Where do you live?”

“California.”

“Cool. I always wanted to learn how to surf.”