The Land Whore - 16. Chapter 16

June 2, 1973

I sat in the first class seat with JP next to me and Brad and Ace behind us. I was relaxed and happy. I'd had a great visit to LA, I'd come back de-stressed, and managed to conveniently dodge seeing Roger. I was having mixed feelings about him. I felt betrayed, hurt, and used, but at the same time I missed our closeness, his inner strength, his masculinity, his body. I sighed and contemplated a week in Paris. JP reached over and grabbed my hand in a friendly gesture.

The boys goofed around for the first part of the flight, annoying the more high-brow members of the first class section. I didn't care. They were so excited and so cute. Finally night came, and their energy faded. They drifted off to sleep. I looked over at JP and gave him an evil stare and he just shook his head. A few minutes later we rendezvoused in the bathroom and I found out that even though Phillipe was good, no one was a better fuck than JP. Except maybe for me.

We all slept through the rest of the flight and landed at Paris the next morning. There was a lot of activity at the airport because the Paris Air Show was going on. Ace loved airplanes, and he whined until JP and I agreed to stick around for a little bit to watch some of the planes fly by.

“Look at that one,” he said, pointing to a long, slender passenger plane.

“That's a Russian version of the Concorde,” said JP. How did he know this stuff? We looked at him for more info. “It's a supersonic transport. The French and British built one called the Concorde; this is the Russian version, although I don't know what they call it.”

“What's a supersonic transport?” asked Ace.

“It's a plane that can travel faster than the speed of sound. This plane could make the flight from Paris to New York in only three hours.”

“Wow,” the boys said as they watched the sleek plane slice through the skies. Suddenly the plane went into a pronounced dive and we braced ourselves for a spectacular maneuver. The plane kept shooting toward the ground, closer and closer. I'd never seen a plane dive at such a speed. It was pretty impressive. Then the plane began to pull out of its dive while we all watched, duly awed, until the plane seemed to fly to pieces.

Our awe changed to stun as we watched the beautiful plane disintegrate in the air, and horror as we saw explosions on the ground where pieces of it landed.

“So much for the Soviet SST program,” JP said somberly. It was an inauspicious beginning to our Paris vacation, but we grabbed our stuff and grabbed a cab. We didn't talk until we got to the city itself, and then the true beauty of Paris compelled expression. The boys exclaimed and pointed at the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, and laughed at the chaotic French traffic.

The cab pulled up in front of the Ritz. I hadn't stayed here when I was in Paris earlier, but JP always stayed here when he was and he booked the hotel. A two bedroom suite, in fact, one bedroom for us and one for the boys.

We walked into our room and saw one big double bed. “You mean I get to share a bed with you for the whole week?” I said with my slutty leer. “That's my dream vacation.”

Away from the pressures of home and work, JP relaxed and giggled. He told the boys that we were going to get ready to go out, locked the door, and he stripped off his clothes and headed to the shower. “You coming?” he said invitingly.

“Unless you have become a selfish lover,” I teased back.

We climbed into the shower and let the water run over our bodies while our lips meshed together. There was something about JP, a bond between us, so no matter who else I was with, who else I loved, being with him was unique, special, and wonderful. I grabbed his hard dick and was about to get him to fuck me when he stopped me.

“I want to wash you,” he said, with a sensual lilt to his voice. “You are a spectacular man Stefan. I want to appreciate your body as much as I appreciate your mind and your soul.” I felt myself quiver at the touch of his words.

He washed my hair, using his strong fingers to massage my scalp. “You have such pretty hair, that strawberry blond color that anyone would die for.” He turned me around and tilted my head back under the water. I felt our dicks rubbing against each other while his hands lovingly pushed the soap out of my hair. “Those blue eyes, that face, round yet long, with a straight yet Gallic nose, and this sexy Adam's apple that reminds everyone that no matter how beautiful you are, you are still very much a man.” He moved his mouth along my cheek line and then down to my neck, nibbling, nuzzling, and licking me. I could only moan with pleasure.

“And this body,” he said, moving his hands down to my torso. “You don't have bulging muscles, but the tone is there, buried under your smooth skin. And I love how you only have hair here,” he said, tickling my underarms, “and here,” moving his fingers down my treasure trail to my pubes and bush. He grabbed my cock and after that I fell into a fog of euphoria, as first he made love to me, and then stopped, and I made love to him. When I finally exploded in his ass, it was an intense orgasm, intense physically and emotionally.

We stood under the shower, panting, with the water washing away the remnants of our amazing sexual encounter. “JP, I would never come between you and Sam, I think you know that, but I do love you with all my heart.” It came out. I didn't mean to say it. I didn't mean to let down my guard like that. I shouldn't have worried.

He kissed me lovingly. “Stefan, I love you too. I know that you love Sam too, and you've shown that you'll do whatever you can to make sure we're happy together. But there's room in my heart for you too. You know that don't you?”

That statement overwhelmed me, and I was glad I was in the shower to hide my tears. I just hugged him tightly, until he broke the embrace. “We'll have lots of time for this later. In the meantime, there are two boys who are going to be really pissed if we do not hit the city .”

June 6, 1973

Bliss. That's what this week had been so far. Sheer bliss. Hanging out and exploring Paris with the boys during the days and evenings, and then having mind-blowing sex with JP at night. Last night had been really special, because Marc had come over to the hotel and spent the night with us. Sex with those two, the two best lovers in the world! Wow. My skin tingled just thinking about it.

The irony of this trip is that I figured that it would give me a chance to bond with Brad, and JP could spend time with Ace. The reverse was true. JP wanted to spend his time wandering around the Louvre, Versailles, Fontainebleau, Vaux-le-Vicomte, or Vincennes. So did Brad. He was entranced by all the art, and enjoyed himself as much as JP did.

Ace and I were different. We liked that stuff in small doses, but we were more active. So after the first day, we split up and I took him out and about, wandering the city, shopping, talking to the people. I stopped to analyze the situation and it made me smile. Ace was a jester; a happy-go-lucky social guy who could make friends at the drop of a hat. If people were down, he'd pick them up. If they were bored, he'd entertain them. It hadn't clicked before, but it did now: our personalities were very similar.

And my reaction to Brad, fostering him, encouraging him, protecting him, were the same kind of reactions that Ace had towards him. In the end, Ace and I found in each other kindred spirits, and I think JP learned to appreciate some of Brad's hidden qualities.

There was only one thing I had to do in France, and that was to confront Armand's parents and get them to sign the release forms that Jackie and my attorney in California had drafted. JP had insisted on going with me to see them, and had hired a driver and a guide to take us to Brittany. These guys were massive, and looked more like thugs than guides, but they were friendly enough. The one loose end, the boys, had been filled in by Marc. The Sorbonne was having a kid's program that week, and he volunteered to take them there for the day.

So here we were, JP and I along with our two hired friends, driving in a sleek Citroen through the countryside of Brittany. We passed through Guipry, where Isidore's family got their name. Her parents still lived in the old dilapidated manor house that had graced their family for generations. Her brother lived a few kilometers outside of town.

We pulled up in front of their house, a nice, middle-class looking place, well-groomed with a pretty garden. JP led the way. The guy was his brother-in-law, after all. Several knocks on the door were finally answered by a young man, probably about 14, who looked just like Armand. His brother, obviously.

“Hi,” JP said. “I'm your uncle, Jean-Paul, from America. Are your parents here?” The boy got an excited look on his face and invited us in while he ran off to find his parents. The room smelled of mustiness, and antique furniture crowded the living room. It had the feel of people living in the past.

A nice looking woman came strolling into the room. She must have been a beauty when she was younger, and still was, although giving birth and eating a bit too much had destroyed her figure.

“Bonjour,” she said cautiously. JP told her who he was, and that made her nervous. Isidore was still persona non grata in the family for having a baby, Ace, out of wedlock. Just then her husband came lumbering into the room.

He was a large man, and an unhappy one. He had that air of bitterness, the air of someone who assumed that life would deal him a better hand and was angry that it did not. His wife, whose name was Antoinette, explained who we were. His brows narrowed.

“Isidore is dead to us. You have no business here,” he said gruffly.

“We are not here to talk about Isidore, we are here to talk about Armand,” I interjected.

Antoinette gasped. “Armand! You know where he is? He is alright?” Her husband, whose name was apparently Jacques, glared at her.

“We have no son named Armand. He is a faggot, and no child of ours.” A tear rolled down Antoinette's face.

“Then you will not mind signing these releases,” I said, pulling out the papers I'd brought with me.

“Releases for what?” he asked suspiciously.

“Releases to allow him to work and live in the United States,” I said.

“So he is in America. Good. I have no son, I will sign nothing.”

I was becoming irritated. “I don't understand. If you have no son, why would you care about signing a release? He's not asking you for anything. The boy just wants to build a life for himself in the US.”

“Do not tell me what to do. It is a family matter. You have no business getting involved,” he growled.

“I think you are a bully. I think that you do not care about anyone but yourself,” JP said.

His eyebrows narrowed. “You will leave my house and never return. Let Armand sell his body to other fags to survive. I don't care.”

“No!” yelled Antoinette as she moved forward to intervene. He pushed her away callously, causing her to fall over a table and bump her head on a couch. I ran over to see if she was OK while JP headed to the door.

He opened the door and the two thugs walked in. “I was hoping we could settle this in a civilized manner, but that is obviously not going to work. In truth, I have looked forward to this moment ever since you beat up my friend Andre.” There was rage and hate in JP's eyes. A more dangerous thing I can't imagine. He looked at the thugs. “This bully just hit his wife. Perhaps you two can teach him a lesson.”

And with that they were on him. I led a sobbing Antoinette into the kitchen. I talked to her, calmly, and she signed my papers while we listened to the screams of her husband. After about 15 minutes I went back into the room. He was a mess. They'd worked him over badly. There was no way he wouldn't have at least a few broken bones.

“Perhaps you will be willing to sign those papers now?” JP said, unfazed by the torture in front of him.

“Fuck you,” Jacques said. One of the thugs kicked him, full force, in the testicles, and then beat him for a few more minutes.

“Have you reconsidered?” JP asked. Jacques said nothing, which got him another kick in the balls and more pounding.

“Perhaps now?” JP asked calmly. Jacques nodded, moved to the coffee table, and scrawled his signature. JP turned to Antoinette. “I am sorry to have messed up your room Madame. Take these few Francs and use them to remove the blood from your upholstery.” He handed her a small wad of bills, which she looked at incredulously. “And if this brute has not learned his lesson and decides to strike you again, or your family, call this number. They will dispatch someone to teach him a lesson again.” Jacques looked at his wife, shocked, and she glared at him. We had just upset the whole power structure of their family.

As we were leaving, she stopped me. “Please tell Armand that his mother still loves him. Ask him to write me.” I nodded.

We climbed into the Citroen and said nothing, arriving back in Paris before the boys returned. JP headed to the shower and I joined him. His actions were typical. Someone was hurting a member of his family, so they had to pay. Period. I found myself worrying about Roger.

June 8, 1973

Today we split up into two separate teams. Ace and JP wandered off to do their own thing, while Brad and I paired off. “So what do you want to do today?” I asked him.

He shrugged, like a true Frenchman. “You grew up in Paris, right?” he asked.

“I did.”

“Show me.” he said.

“Show you what?”

“I want to see where you grew up, where you hung out, what you did when you were a kid like me.”

That stymied me. My past was not pretty, at least not to a boy about to make the transition to manhood. “My past was not pretty. I lived in a bad area, and had to do bad things.”

He looked at me philosophically. “So, you are a good person now. I want to see.”

I took him to Bellevue, where we looked totally out of place in our nice clothes. But it was daylight, and the routine in the neighborhood had not changed that much. We would be safe. I showed him the shops that we'd bought our food and clothes from, the school that I'd gone to, and the church where I'd been baptized.

“Where did you live?” he asked. I sighed and led him to the crappy apartment building that I'd once called home. We went into the building and both of us crinkled our noses at the smell, which made me smile. We climbed the stairs to the landing and I showed him the door to my old apartment.

Just as we were about to leave the door flew open and a woman with a young boy prepared to leave. “Can I help you monsieur?” she asked in a not-overly-friendly manner.

“My name is Stefan, madam, and this is my nephew. I grew up here, and lived in your apartment when I was younger. My nephew wanted to see where I spent my youth.”

She eyed us cautiously, as did her son who was probably about five or six years old. She motioned for us to enter, and Brad headed in before I had a chance to stop him.

There was the single sitting room with the dilapidated kitchen. There was an old bathroom on the other side of it. I avoided the one bedroom. That had been where my mother had slept, rarely alone. I'd made do with a small bed in the corner. As I looked over to that spot, I saw the same type of bed for her son. I felt my emotions surge, trying to stop them. A tear fell down my cheek. The lady looked at me questioningly. She'd seen hardship. She was more interested as to why I was crying, than because I was.

“My mother raised me here, and she died here,” I said quietly. She nodded somberly.

“You do not look as if you live around here now,” she observed.

“We are from the United States. I wanted to bring my nephew to see Paris.”

“You have picked the least desirable place to show him.”

“No offense, madam, but I have to agree with you.” She laughed, for the first time, and I joined her.

“I do not mean to be rude, but we must be off,” she said. I grabbed Brad's hand and we headed to the door. I got out my wallet and pulled about half of my money out. It was a lot, since I used cash when I traveled. Probably well over $2,000. I handed it to her.

“What is this for?” she asked suspiciously.

“It is like winning the lottery. Perhaps it will make raising your son a little easier than it was for my mother to raise me.” I turned to leave but she grabbed me and hugged me.

“Thank you monsieur. You are an angel.”

I laughed. “Now that is one thing I most certainly am not.” Brad laughed loudly at that.

“Are you OK?” Brad asked me as we left.

“I am doing great. I came back here to Paris last month to try and put my past behind me. I couldn't quite do it. But being in that apartment, remembering my life and my mother, and then being able to help that woman, somehow I felt like I had broken the cycle. Does that make sense?” I realized that I was tossing a bunch of crap on a young guy.

“It does. Kind of like how someday I'm going to have to face Nick and Beatrice and deal with them. But I'm going to wait until I'm bigger so I can kick Nick's ass if I have to.” I roared with laughter at that.

“I think it is precisely the same. Have I ever told you what a bright and perceptive young man you are?”

“No, you have not. But I know I am, so it's OK.” His arrogant response stunned me until I realized he was joking.

The more time we spent together, the more of me I let him see, the more he let me see inside of him. I took him to Montmartre and hired an artist to draw our caricatures. The artist did a really good job, and I was just about to pay him and tip him well when Brad spoke up.

“Can I draw you?” he asked the artist. He looked at Brad and smiled.

“But of course,” he said. He sat on the same stool and let Brad take over his easel and pens. His fellow artists glanced over periodically, curious as to what was going on. Brad took his time, which seemed to frustrate the artist. I leaned over and whispered that I'd pay him well for his time, and he settled down. Finally Brad had finished.

We looked at the picture, and it was really good. A few of the other artists came over to look. “You must come join us when you are older,” one of them said.

Brad smiled. “Thank you, but I plan to work in Hollywood making cartoons.” They all laughed like it was some big pipe dream. We looked at each other knowingly. My contacts, my whoring around in LA, would at least open some doors for Brad. Not terribly unlike what my own mother had done.

And that was an epiphany for me. That's what she'd done. She'd whored herself out, done whatever she could so we could survive, and I could have a chance. My success, my happiness, was a direct reflection on her investment in me. And here it was the patterns and the karma, carrying forward to the next generation.

I paid the artist handsomely and took all three of our drawings with us. Brad had an inspiration and wanted to buy some additional art supplies, even though it was our last day. Still, there wasn't much I wouldn't do for him.

After we bought them, we went to see the Eiffel Tower, which he sketched diligently. He also insisted that we head out to Versailles, where he did a great sketch of the palace and of the Trianon. We did not make it back to the hotel until almost 6pm, a very exhausted duo.

JP and I retired to the bedroom to fuck, shower, and talk. In that order.

“So what did you do today?” he asked.

“I took Brad to Bellevue and showed him where I grew up. We even got to see my old apartment.”

“Not exactly the nicest part of Paris to see,” he joked.

“No it's not, but Brad seemed to want to get to know my past.” I showed him the drawings and told him about our trip to Montmartre.

“So what did you do?” I asked.

JP giggled. “We went to see a football game. Actually, it was a practice, and Marc knew one of the players. No, I don't know how well he 'knew' him,” he said, joking. “Anyway, they let Ace play around with them for awhile. He had a great time playing soccer, and I had a great time checking out the cute asses on the players.”

JP and Ace had already eaten, so I took Brad to my favorite little cafe across from the Tuileries for a light dinner.

“You like boys,” he stated.

“In what way?” I asked.

“To be with. Most men are with women, but you like to be with other men.”

“That is true. You are talking about sex, no?” He blushed. “Do not be embarrassed. Sex is a natural part of being a man. You will find that out soon enough when your body starts to change.”

“I know how that works,” he said indignantly.

I wanted to answer his question. It wasn't fair to dodge it. “I have had sex with many women, and with many men, but I like having sex with other men best. That makes me a homosexual.”

“Is that the same thing as a fag?”

“It is. Fag is the mean word for it. The polite word is 'gay'.”

“People get beat up for being gay,” he said.

“That is true. It can be dangerous to be gay. It threatens people, and it scares them, and they often react violently.”

“Did you ever get beat up?”

“I have been beat up a few times in my life, not just for being gay though. Being beaten up is a sad thing, but I survived.”

“Is that why Armand got beat up?”

Wow. Now we had gone down a whole different path. “Gay people do not talk about other people and their secrets. Having people know that you're gay can be dangerous. I have been lucky, because it does not affect my business, but mostly because I have an understanding family and because I am wealthy. I can afford to insulate myself to a degree.”

“So is that why you can't talk about who Armand is with?”

“That's right. If I told someone that he slept with other men, and people in Hollywood found out, they might not hire him. It could ruin his career.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “You can trust me with secrets,” he said.

“And can you trust me with your secrets?” I asked.

“I think so,” he said.

“Let's swear to each other, promise that we will. We will make it a blood promise, and those can never be broken.” I'd done this with my friends when I was a kid. It was kind of cool, made me feel really committed.

“How do we do that?” he asked.

“We each prick our finger until it bleeds a little bit, and then we smash them together, so our blood mixes. While we are doing that, we look at each other and promise that whatever we tell each other can never be told to anyone else.”

“You got a pin?” he asked. I got up and went to the counter and the lady fortunately had a sewing needle handy. I took it back to the table and pricked my hand first, then his, and smashed our fingers together like I said, and we uttered the words, now an oath, to each other. “So now we have a blood bond that can never be broken,” I said.

“So did Armand get beat up for being gay?” he asked, the little shit. He had laid a handy little trap for me.

“Yes. His father beat him up and threw him out of the house.”

“For being gay? I wouldn't tell anyone that I was gay if I was going to get beat up and thrown out of my house,” he said. And I knew now where this was going, but I'd leave it alone for now. Brad was having issues about his own sexuality.

“That is why many men never reveal that they are gay. I hope you know now that you can come talk to me about anything,” I said emphatically. “Especially about sex. Even if it is explicit.”

“Explicit? What's that?”

“It means very descriptive. Like if you want to know how to jerk off. Telling you how to do that would be pretty descriptive, right?” He blushed and nodded. Maybe I shouldn't be so open with him, but he was so introspective, he was going to have to feel really comfortable with me, especially if he figured out that he was gay.

We headed back to the hotel, now very tired. This had been a great trip. I'd built much closer ties to Ace, Brad, and JP. I opened the door and found a very worried looking JP.

“We have a guest,” he said, and I turned to notice that there was someone standing in the middle of the room, someone I certainly didn't expect