Gay sex story : A Tour in Italy By Simon Peter
“And this is the Prostitution Quarter,” Patricio, our guide to the ruins of Pompeii near Naples, remarked, glancing at me.
From the start of the tour some six hours earlier, I had been captivated by Patricio. He was a tall, slim, dark-skinned Italian in his mid-twenties. What more could I say to describe him? He had a light beard, killer lips, a Grecian nose, wide-set eyes of indeterminate dark color, and frizzy hair. In short, Patricio was my dream guy. I had known immediately that the day would be heavenly, listening to his Italian accent on the bus, exploring Naples, and now Pompeii, admiring his bubble butt in tight low-hung jeans as he led us, lost in fantasies.
Admittedly, I hadn’t engaged in sex during the previous four days in Rome. I had been enthralled by the culture, statues, piazzas, shops, and museums. Two days prior to today’s trip, I had taken a train to Florence and spent time at a museum marveling at Michelangelo’s David. I must have spent over half an hour gazing at the beauty of the male form sculpted in marble. Today, the naked physique of David overlapped with our guide, Patricio.
Patricio pointed to frescoes above doorways leading to what were once rooms for prostitution. The frescoes depicted various sexual scenes.
Pointing to one fresco, Patricio glanced at me and remarked, “Even then, boys slept with each other.”
Sure enough, the fresco depicted two men engaged in intercourse. Patricio referred to them as boys, and I couldn’t help but adore his accent. I snapped a photo of the fresco.
Throughout the tour, I had fantasized about Patricio, maintaining a semi-erection. Yet, I knew these fantasies would likely remain just that—fantasies.
That’s why I was taken aback when, at the end of the Pompeii tour, standing near our bus smoking with Patricio while waiting for the rest of the group to join us, he leaned close and asked me in a soft voice, “So, did you like the frescoes, Simon?”
First, he called me by my first name, though he had everyone’s full names. Second, he remembered my name. Third, there was a subtle smile on his face as he asked. Fourth, he lowered his voice so only I could hear. It could all be my fantasies messing with my head, but then again, maybe it was something more.
“Oh, yes,” I answered in a similar low voice.
Patricio laughed. “I saw-a-you taking the pictures.”
I might have flushed red at this. But Patricio continued, still in a low voice: “Can I see?”
Without a word, numb, I handed him my cell phone. He fumbled with it and found the gallery, located the picture. I didn’t dare look at his face. My heart raced. I had only shot the fresco of the men, the one I have attached above.
Patricio handed me back the phone without saying anything as the other members of the group reached the coach and started to board. I followed, not knowing what Patricio thought about the picture I had taken.
I sat three rows behind and watched the back of Patricio’s head, his neck, his shoulders. I tried reading the book I had brought with me, a crime novel by P. D. James, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept glancing at Patricio, sitting in the front, and I kept fantasizing. Like me slipping on a stone in the ruins of Pompeii and Patricio picking me up and holding me asking if I was hurt. Or like me brushing by his front as I climbed off the bus. Or me walking into the men’s room in the rest area on the road back to Rome and finding Patricio at a urinal with a hard-on, waiting for my mouth. The erection I had throughout the three-hour trip hurt like hell. I didn’t dare touch myself for fear of exploding in my jeans.
I kept thinking: why had Patricio asked me about the fresco. Why had he glanced at me when he was explaining the image of the two men fucking? Why hadn’t he said anything when he saw the photo I shot?
When we got to Rome and I was delirious with lust for this unattainable stud, we disembarked from the coach. I didn’t know what to do. Going back to the hotel and masturbating to the image of Patricio did not feel such an enticing option. But there was nothing I could do. I hitched my backpack and got ready to start my solitary trek back to my hotel when Patricio came out of the agency office and called after me.
“Hey, Simon.”
I froze. What would Patricio want from me? I knew what I wanted from him: his lips, his naked body, his hard cock, his firm ass.
“Do you feel-a-like going on another tour-uh?” he asked as he approached me.
Ah, I thought, the guy wanted to make some extra money. After all, being a guide was his job. And who was I? Not a pretty movie-star material. And who said that this guy was gay in the first place? That he wanted to have sex with me?
“Another tour?” I asked stupidly.
“Si,” he said, smiling. “I can show you Rome-uh by night-uh.”
I succumbed. How could I refuse? Even though I knew that the guy was looking for extra money, I nodded.
“Fantastico,” he said. “Wait-uh for me here.”
I waited. A few minutes later, Patricio appeared on a Vespa. My God! I almost fainted, he looked so cute. He got off the bike and took out a helmet from the box in the back.
“Put this on and lets-a go.”
I donned the helmet and climbed onto the seat behind him. He started the bike and we moved. I didn’t know where to put my hands. I clutched at the sides of my seat, feeling the rush of air as Patricio picked up speed.
“Hold onto me,” he shouted over the noise of his bike, slightly turning his head. “I don’t-a-want you to fall off-uh!”
What? The guy wanted me to hug him? My cock instantly reacted by starting to erect. I gingerly placed my hands on the sides of his hips. I heard him laugh as he grabbed one of my hands and placed it around his waist. I was shivering all over and I felt myself slide the few inches toward him as I wrapped my other hand around him. My crotch was now flush with his lower back. And of course I erected painfully.
I felt the heat emanating from Patricio’s body against mine as my hands pressed on his belly, inches away from his crotch. As he sped through the winding and narrow alleys of Rome, I couldn’t resist sliding my hands down.
Patricio was erect.
My cock throbbed when I felt his erection. I couldn’t tell if his cock was big or not, but I could tell that it was rock hard.
I was going to get laid! I shook all over. It was incredible. Nothing like this had been planned. Even my fantasies had been just fantasies. But now I felt my body plastered onto the back of this beautiful specimen of a man and my hand was cupping his crotch, feeling his hardness. Yes, I was going to be laid.
Patricio stopped the bike and parked in one of the narrow alleyways near a rustic restaurant.
“This is where-a-da- best pizza in Rome is made-uh,” he announced in his sexy accent as he took off his helmet. Now I saw him even more exotic, more erotic, now that I knew we were going to fuck. I didn’t really want pizza or pasta. I was dying for his lips around my mouth, for his tongue probing my throat, for his hands on my naked skin, for his cock prodding me. But Patricio wanted me to taste Rome first.