A gay story: Gaston Song (Beauty and Beast) Gaston song (Beauty and Beast).
1726: the crowd in a small town tavern cheers local Hero, Alpha man, who facializes his (male) mate
### Copyright © 2023. This is a copyrighted work. Unauthorized use is prohibited. All rights reserved by the author.
My contribution to “Karaoke 2023” Author Challenge.
———- GAY ALERT! For Adult Readers Only! Scenes of homosexual sexuality are very soft here, yet nevertheless, are undoubtedly GAY.
This is a fairytale of pure fiction. Any reference to actual events is intended to be entirely fortuitous.
In the first half of the 18th century, a fictional and fabulous northern France had been entangled in plagues, wars, and famines that had mowed down the population. For this reason, all the people present in town were over 21 years old.
Do not try to imitate characters from the tale! All the performers in the scene act as professionals (some are hazardous activities, don’t try them at home).
As you may have noticed somehow, English is not my mother tongue, so please forgive the mistakes. ###
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1726, France. A small country town north of Paris, near an Enchanted Forest.
The wackiest weirdo girl in town, the bookworm Belle Dubois, had just rejected a marriage proposal made by the most admired hunter in the area, the famous Gaston, a former mercenary, ex-army captain, and actual hunter. She humiliated him in front of everyone, publicly.
Now mad with rage, Gaston walked fast and furious toward the village’s only tavern. As he advanced, he cursed to himself loudly, “Who does she think she is, that girl has messed with the wrong man! No one says no to Gaston!”
His former military adjutant, and now hunting mate, LeFou followed him prancing like a fawn or a hare. “Heh heh. Darn right! No one, male or female, ever says no to…”
But as usual, Gaston did not listen to him. The Captain never listened to anyone: and least of all he never listened to LeFou, who had stayed with him after the most recent war had ended.
Not that the wars were over: a mercenary warmonger like Gaston was sure he would soon receive new job offers. But for that very reason, he was in a hurry to get married, and he could not accept a rejection of his Proposal.
And then there was a problem of Reputation.
He was considered by everyone to be the Hero Next Door. Everyone admired his LONG rifle, his infallible LONG bow with a LONG quiver full of LONG arrows, his LONG boots, or as LeFou once said, “No one goes tromping around wearing boots like Gaston.”
Without listening to LeFou’s homoerotic thoughts, Gaston muttered, spelling out the too-long words, “Dismissed! Rejected! Publicly humiliated! Sounds like the tags of an erotic tale! Puff… Gaston opened the tavern door. A wave of heat hit the two wanderers.
“Hey you, Fonzarelly! Get out of my chair reserved for me in front of the crackling fireplace! If you want your own space, lock yourself in the loo and call it ‘my office,’ you wanker dead! See on the floor that quiver of arrows? It’s mine, if you don’t disappear right now, I’ll impale you with a dozen arrows in your asshole,” roared Gaston. When Gaston mistreated losers, in such a manly way, LeFou was daydreaming.
Sinking into his favorite armchair, made of deer antlers and bear furs, which he had personally killed (and not for food, but only to obtain stupid metal trophies), Gaston put one leg over the armrest, spreading his thighs wide.
Some thought he did it for exhibitionism; others thought he did it to show that no one could teach him manners.
The girls who worked in the tavern constantly stared at the bulge bulging in his pants: and also LeFou. No, the girls were not staring at LeFou: it was LeFou who was staring at the bulge, too.
“No one does manspreading like Gaston,” LeFou silently thought.
Unbuttoned shirt, tight pants, two wide musketeer boots, light leather, with a mid-thigh cuff, and a large square metal buckle at ankle level. With his legs spread wide, in a loud voice, and staring at the melancholy look of a bear now reduced to carpet under his feet, Gaston shouted to the barmaids, “Why, be rejected it’s more than I can bear! [he looked at the carpet] Bear? More beer!”
But then, shaking his head, he bent down resting his chin on top of his elbow. A sculptor, a man named Rodin, was present in the tavern and took inspiration: Gaston was the perfect example of the 18th-century overthinking Thinker.
That evening, Gaston was depressed, and he knew that beer would not soothe his humiliation. “Beer… What for? Nothing helps, I’m disgraced.”
Beneath Gaston’s feet, near the bear’s snout, LeFou had also crouched down and was looking down on his tall cub to cuddle. In a motherly voice, LeFou said to him:
“Who? Disgraced… You? Never! Gaston, you’ve got to pull yourself together!”
LeFou was sincere in his admiration for the former captain. LeFou was also an excellent marksman with excellent aim, but never like Gaston: and more than once, he had saved his life. Devotion soon merged with admiration… LeFou followed him everywhere except to the roadside brothels, where he preferred to stay outside under the guise of looking after the horses while Gaston first made one or two girls laugh, then moan, and finally scream at a time. But LeFou was proud of how strong and virile Gaston was… he liked him the way he was. Seeing his hero depressed was too painful, and it contrasted with the image of perfection that LeFou had become accustomed to (and that haunted him during sleep, or when he secretly masturbated).
LeFou tried to lift Gaston’s spirits by showing him that everyone in the village admired him: with broad hand gestures, LeFou solicited the consent of the other people in the tavern.
“Gosh, it disturbs me to see you, Gaston, looking so down in the dumps… Every guy here, he’d love to be you, Gaston, even when taking your lumps!”
Everyone nodded. The men longed to look like Gaston, and the three girls who worked in the tavern longed to be wildly fucked by him like a Beast, even though it had never happened until that day.
“There’s no man in town as admired as you, you’re everyone’s favorite guy. Everyone’s awed and inspired by you…and it’s not very hard to see why…” murmured LeFou, staring at the darting muscles, but mostly contemplating longingly the bulge below the hero’s belt.
“No one’s licks as Gaston!” shouted one of the girls, to encourage him, although she didn’t know from experience because he had never licked her pussy.
“No one’s as quick as Gaston…” said one patron, with a grimace, implying that he was just a premature ejaculator. Prostitutes liked their customers to be early ejaculators because they committed less time. Perhaps that reputation was also widespread among all but LeFou did not know it. At that moment, LeFou was turned to do a difficult thing, and he did not notice the grimace that changed the meaning of the word “quick”: he thought it meant “clever” or “very quick at chasing hares.”
LeFou was busy tightening a leather belt around Gaston’s neck. It was a game they had played many times for the show. First Gaston would blush from the effort, then he would swell his neck muscles so much that he would break the belt buckle. Each time, LeFou looked at him longingly, blushing at the thought that, one day, he might put a thin leather belt around the base of Gaston’s thick cock, to keep it erect longer, and see if with his own tongue, he would be able to get it so hard that he would break the buckle even then… Still daydreaming, LeFou hummed:
“No one’s neck’s as incredibly thick as Gaston…”
Gaston gritted his teeth, swelled his neck muscles, and broke the belt. A large stain wet the front of LeFou’s pants (as happened every time they played this game).
Another girl, hopeful, commented, “For there’s no man in town half as manly…”
LeFou turned to the girl nodding, “Perfect, a pure paragon! You can ask any Tom, Dick, or Stanley, and they’ll tell you whose team they prefer to be on!”
Everyone admitted that as a teammate in the shooting and weightlifting sports Gaston was always a first choice.
“Who plays FARTS like Gaston? Who breaks ARSES like Gaston? Who’s much more than the sum of his parts like Gaston?”
After breaking the belt, Gaston had broken all doubt and insecurity. Inside, he was still insecure: but “life is a stage” (wrote a poet a few years before 1726) and Gaston did not want to disappoint his audience. Only he knew how much difference there was between the strong and rough appearance of the external specimen, and the deep sadness of the soul when he was alone or when night terrors made him relive traumas and massacres. Gaston decided that the audience needed apparent security.
Standing, looking at the long shadow casting on the wall opposite the fireplace, Gaston admitted, “As a specimen, yes, I’m intimidating… (a girl groaned, seeing him so also: “My, what a guy, that Gaston!”) I needed encouragement, thank you, LeFou.”
LeFou smiled too confidingly, “Well, there is no one who is as easy to straighten his dick from totally limp to marble hard, as you are. Oops! Too much?”
“Yep.”
“Oops… It’s just a saying in my neck of the woods, like “bread and butter” or “two birds in a row”…you know…”
In his mind, LeFou had already composed other rhymes, but after that reaction, he dared not say them out loud. “No one’s been like Gaston, a king pig like Gaston… No one’s got a swell cleft in his chin like Gaston,” he sighed, staring devoutly at that chin, and hoping that it would reproduce, in proportion, another cleft in the middle of Gaston’s round buttocks…
The girls kept singing about Gaston, what they hoped was true. The patrons shook their heads: not always a very tall man is also very attentive to the pleasure his female partner could derive from those hasty encounters.
“No one fucks like Gaston or douses lights like Gaston… In a wrestling match, nobody bites like Gaston!” It was clear to everyone, what kind of “wrestling” the girl had in mind: the kind you do without clothes. It was less obvious whether she would want his bites on her bottom cheeks, on her tits, or directly on her pussy.
But all these coded messages escaped Gaston’s simple mind, which interpreted all the praise as a reference to hunting.
“When I hunt, I sneak up with my quiver, and beasts of the field say a prayer. First, I carefully aim for the liver, and I shoot from behind!”
Hearing Gaston utter the words “I Shoot From Behind,” LeFou almost fainted. “Mais parbleu, Je ne gaspillerais jamais ma chance!” (they say this phrase had fortune among 18th century Enlightenment intellectuals, translated into English as “I am not throwin’ away my shot: hey yo, I’m just like my country, I’m young, scrappy and hungry and I’m not throwin’ away my shot.”)
One girl wrinkled her eyebrows, genuinely concerned, “Is that fair? I mean, hit a poor female prey, maybe a Mother, from BEHIND!”
But Gaston did not catch the refined metaphor: convinced that they were talking about hunting prey, like a golden hind, or a female reindeer, he shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t care.”
“No one hits like Gaston, or pays the beds like Gaston! In a spitting match, nobody spits like Gaston!” said some patrons.
Gaston confirmed “I’m especially good at expectorating… PTOOEY!” and performed a very long spit that hit the bronze spittoon.
An invisible voice resembling that of Wizard Dumbledore announced “Ten points for Gryffindor!” The patrons fell silent. The bronze spittoon spoke softly, “I guess you guys aren’t ready for that, but your grand-grand-kids are gonna love it…”
Gaston did not listen, as usual: he never listened to anything or anyone. “When I was a lad, I ate four dozen eggs every morning to help me get large: and now that I’m grown, I eat five dozen eggs so, I’m roughly the size of a barge!” An itinerant pharmacist passing through the village occasionally said something like “If you don’t stop now, you’re likely to die before you’re 40…cholesterol, said Hippocrates in the fifth century BCE…”
LeFou led the chorus, as energetically as Freddie Mercury… Well, what? French alchemists knew Mercury and used it often in their stills, for its energetic chemical properties. Even in the year 1726.
“Who holds your reins (like Gaston)? Who entertains (like Gaston)? Who can make up these endless refrains, like Gaston?” An impartial observer might have pointed out that it was not Gaston, but LeFou who was creating all those refrains: as if LeFou had been a famous swordsman/poet a few years earlier, the notorious Cyrano De Bergerac (1619-1655). That Cyrano was famous for some parts of his body very long and wide, but That Cyrano was famous for some very long and wide parts of his body, but LeFou could not remember what it was. Long, wide, and very hard if stroked properly.
The idea that Gaston could grasp LeFou’s body by pulling the reins, not as a metaphor but as a concrete physical act, aroused a quiver in his throat: but perhaps people in the tavern interpreted it as an artistic glee of the voice, as a singing virtuosity.
Proudly, Gastone displayed the trophies he had hung on the wall: “I use antlers in all of my decorating!” Someone chuckled secretly. Deer antlers in southern Europe are symbolic of cheated married men. Surely, an early ejaculator like him would be cheated on by his wife very soon, much to the delight of the whole neighborhood!
LeFou was mad with joy. Imagining Gaston as a “man among men,” it was sweet as a cream pie. LeFou pranced as a Cheerleader, waving his arms and smiling, “Say it again: who’s a man among men? Who’s the super success? Don’t you know? Can’t you guess? Ask his fans and his many hangers-on, there’s just one guy in town who’s got all of it down! And his name’s “G”-“A”-“S”-“T”… ahem… I believe there’s another “T” or maybe an ache, you know, French is difficult in the 18th century and it just occurred to me that I’m illiterate (I’m not a Cyrano yet…), and I’ve never actually had to spell it out loud before… GASTON!”
The crowd cheered, in delight. Everyone applauded the cheerleader’s show… everyone except three men sitting at the back of the hall, almost in the dark.
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From the darkest part of the room, three travelers stood up whom no one had seen until then. They were talking to each other.
One was white-skinned, while the other two were much darker.
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Dear reader: didn’t you marvel at the presence of a whole Enchanted Forest, and now you ask impertinent questions about whether men from Africa and Asia came to France? Dear reader: since 1642, King Louis XIV had established a colony on the island of Réunion, between Madagascar and the Maldives; and since 1674, he had contracted with local nobles for a permanent colony in Pondicherry, on the east coast of the Indian Peninsula north of Sri Lanka. Missionaries returned from China and Tonkino bringing native young men from Asia. So there is nothing magical or supernatural about meeting colored-skin travelers in a tavern. Not least because it was necessary to rest when possible on the journey to Paris (“the Greatest City in the World,” according to Thomas Jefferson who lived there for a long time before returning to Monticello, Virginia home sweet home: he’s been off in Paris for so long!).
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“There are many loudmouths, boastful people, who fill their words with achievements distant in time and space, which no one may ever check.
But you know what the ancient Greeks used to say, dear: ‘Hic Rhodus, Hic Saltus’.
Surely you have read in books what it means. Suppose this to be Rhodes; and now for your leap.
Show us what you can do, here, now. You had better do something… quick! But not too quick, if you know what I mean!” whispers a stranger sitting in the corner of the room to Gaston.
He was a strange-looking weather-beaten man, with two friends sitting in the shadows near the wall… He had a tall tankard in front of him, in the dark, and was smoking a long-stemmed pipe curiously carved: maybe Dutch-made. His legs were stretched out before him, showing high boots of supple leather that fitted him well, but had seen much wear and were now caked with mud. A travel-stained cloak of heavy dark green was drawn close about him, and despite the heat of the room he wore a hood that overshadowed his face.”
The stranger stood up. His two companions imitated him.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Gaston, and how quick you are. The exact words of a prostitute we met two weeks ago, a long way from here, were ‘Quick like a squeak’, and those are not phrases you easily forget. So, big mouth: dare you accept a challenge? It’s all about shooting the gun, nothing more, nothing less.”
“This is MY village, loser. No one has ever challenged me to a shooting contest in this tavern without being defeated. I accept any kind of shot: rifle, bow and arrow, darts against a target on the wall, even spit toward the bronze spittoon.”
“We specialize in a different kind of shot.” Said the one with slit eyes.
“Let me introduce you to my traveling companions. This is Paul… his real name in Chinese is too hard to pronounce, something like Baozi Shangtao, bah, I’ve given up and called him Paul. Don’t be fooled: he has small eyes but a big dick, ha, ha!
I, on the other hand, am the Marquis of Beauxmontes d’O, near Roissy. Perhaps you have already heard mention of our “Histoire”. Philosopher, traveler, and alchemist.
My butler is Jacques, or as the slave trader in Zanzibar used to say, Black Jack. I bought him only to free him the same day: my philosophy allows me to pay butlers, but not to own slaves. Black Jack because his skin is as black as coffee: but his cum is the same color as mine. If I have to acknowledge a difference, he has a smaller cock than the Chinese.”
Black Jack intervened. “This is not correct, monsieur le Marquis. I have an average-sized cock among my tribe, near Tanganyika Lake. My grandfather had a dick 8.25 centimeters long! [Note. French mathematicians such as Cassini had proposed a metric system based on the measurement of the equatorial line since the late 17th century. 8.5 centimeters back then is equivalent to about 3 inches and 1/4 today.] That 8.5 was only when two or three of his wives were helping him to achieve a full erection! Yet my grandpa had 19 children and 274 nephews! And I only keep track of the males, as usual in my tribe.”
“Yes, Jack, we know, calm down, all right. But today our challenge is not about size. It’s about LOAD and even durability. I’m going to pay these girls serving in the bar to show us their firm tits. Then we will each jerk off the gun until we have filled the faces and cleavage of these provocative little whores with cum. Whoever leaves the most cum on the face and chest will win… so it’s just a matter of quantity. But everyone will see that you hunter, you are “too” fast if you cum first… and that could be a defeat for you, right?”
Gaston did not understand what was wrong with ejaculating immediately. Every hunter knows that speed and quickness are essential to ball up the prey, indeed, to stuff the whole thing with hastily fired bullets! But, although he did not understand the mention of duration, Gaston was unable to avoid a challenge.
Without speaking, he took off his shirt, staring proudly at the three travelers.
“Look at these muscles, you three losers. And every last inch of me’s covered with hair!”
It was true. Testosterone had covered not only her forearms, chest, and shoulders with hair but also her entire back.
It almost looked as if a passing witch had turned him into a Beast, but no, that’s not possible: those things only happen in fairytales.
LeFou was leaking drool from his lower lip: the strong smell of Gaston’s sweaty skin (and especially his armpits, which he had neglected to wash for weeks, for the sake of hunting) almost made him faint.
The Marquis de Beauxmontes d’O placed a leather bag on the table, gesturing to the girls.
Immediately, those knelt before the three travelers, peeking their nipples out of their barmaid shirts. They were very low-cut shirts, which already under normal conditions allowed drunken patrons to see and touch everything (as seen in countless paintings and engravings of that era): but to see six nipples in a row, in front of the three strangers, was exciting for everyone, even those who did not have to compete in the challenge.
Some hands began rubbing bulges in their pants. It is not every day that a passing marquis pays three barmaids to get facials in front of everyone.
The three began to jerk off with studied slowness. Black Jack’s penis seemed smaller in size perhaps because he had a very large hand: instead, the Chinese man’s fingers were thin and tapered, making the cock look like a street lamp post.
Gaston had removed his shirt and pulled down his tight pants, rolling them over the edge of the wide leather musketeer boots.
Walking with difficulty on the hunting boots, exposing both his hairy buttocks and erect cock to all, Gaston stood beside the trio of riflemen.
But a fourth girl was missing. The space in front of Gaston was empty.
It was certainly not Gaston’s fault. Math had never been his favorite subject. One, two, and three are easy concepts: me and you and me and you and another person meaning “many” (or as the poet says: “two is company, three a crowd”).
LeFou stepped in to save the day. Like Gaston, LeFou had also unbuttoned his shirt. But unlike Gaston, he was completely hairless: no hair either on his chest, shoulders, or forearms. Yet he was already almost 21 and a half years old! No mustache, and no beard on his chin. But LeFou did not care what people said: his father and grandfather were also hairless and had lived happy lives.
Happy was LeFou whenever his fingers ran over the silk ribbon he used to tie his long hair into an eighteenth-century ponytail (similar to those of so many heroes of the Revolution of 1776). Each time his fingertips touched the silk, it felt to him like becoming one of those fairy tale princesses. A long mane of hair, ready to overflow like a raging river as soon as he had untied the knot that alone held back all the vast amount of emotions and feelings that for the moment were still immovable, like the reservoir of a lake until the dam is still closed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a mouse coming out of a closet door: but LeFou shook his head and thought, “Not Today,” like an English princess from the long Two Roses civil war that pitted the Stark and Lannister houses against each other (“Not Today” sounds good: they could print this phrase on T-shirts, using the same ink press that printers use to print pictures in books).
Undoing the bow, with long strands of hair covering his face, LeFou knelt beside the third girl and said, “Don’t worry, Gaston: it’s just to allow the competition to run smoothly. As per the rules just stated, only the amount of semen on the target will count. I will be here as target and collector: don’t think of me as a person but only as an object of the furniture.” A little tad of Furniphilia? Not Today, please.
The competition had already started and people were loudly encouraging the contestants.
In the crowd, some were distracted by personal needs involving stained hands and pants.
Others were focused on the bets already placed within moments on the different contestants: the Black, the Yellow, the Green (Marquis Beauxmontes d’O, because he wore a green cape), and Red for Gaston because everyone knew it was the color of the military tunic he often wore.
Paul, the Yellow, cum first. The girl in front was very defiant and kept inciting him, moving her tongue across her gaping mouth.
A moment later, the marquis cummed as well.
Black Jack laughed. “Ha, ha, maybe I have a shorter cock, however, it lasts LONGER, ha, ha!” and merry because of this very bad joke, he also cum.
Gaston started to masturbate with vigor and rhythm, but he was distracted. Like every hunter (or perhaps, like every male), Gaston was very visual: but at that moment his eyes were clouded by the anger caused by that damn Belle Dubois. Now, he was not looking at LeFou in front of him, but somehow at the three Bimboes with their nipples exposed. But the position was uncomfortable, and the light dim; and six bare female nipples could not succeed in distracting him from the obsession of being rejected. There existed no nipples: only his Ego existed. Amid the crowd, but alone with his thoughts, Gaston did not hear the noises of the tavern: he heard only the laughter and sassy response of that Belle. But who did that girl think she was? Pretty, sure, but strange and weird! She was always focused on reading those nonsensical books: once he had opened one, and it contained no pictures! What is the use of a book, thought Gaston, without pictures or conversations? This concept was first expressed in 1726 in a tavern during a facializing contest and later taken up by many writers, including Lewis Carroll in 1865.
Gaston never listened to anything or anyone. At that moment, he did not even listen to the uproar of the crowd, which encouraged him to spurt.
Seeing that Gaston was very distracted, LeFou touched the skin of his pelvic bone with one hand.
LeFou murmured in an inaudible whisper. No one heard it: not even Gaston (who would not listen anyway). “Gaston? Gosh, it disturbs me so much to see you looking so down in the dumps… This guy here, he’d love to be facialized by you, Gaston…”
Gaston’s ears heard no words. But the skin of his hips felt the touch of a hand: the hand of a fond in-love partner.
Hips don’t lie.
And an early cock always sings as soon as the sun appears.
Gaston was indeed a premature ejaculator. In each of those road brothels, he used the time by telling hunting exploits or old war anecdotes, and the prostitutes’ screams were usually for some scaring scene in which he recounted mutilation and flaying. Then the women would laughingly unbutton a single button, then pretend to groan as an actress learns to do, eating any dishes in any poor restaurant (as in the French fairytales “Quand Henri rencontrait la jeune princesse Sarah,” 1589, talking about the impossibility of a boy and a girl being just friends).
That touch on the hips had been enough to spray the whole load. And it was a significant load! He and LeFou had been hunting in the forest chasing the tracks of a deer herd for three consecutive days (maybe four), and he had never had time to masturbate. His plan had been to stop at some brothel on the road, but when he had run into Belle, he had made the Proposal, convinced that she would accept and that she would welcome into her virginal womb all the load of semen collected in three days.
Gaston looked down. The long hair of the person kneeling before him was a mess of whitish semen. The nose was unrecognizable: completely covered with cream, like a mountain after a snowfall. The cheekbones rounded by cum, the jaw hidden by the cum, which dripping from the chin also hid from view the Adam’s Apple in the neck.
Forgetting where he was and who was there, Gaston thought, “Wow, what a gorgeous sight! Under the whitish glazier created by me, there could be a Jeanne d’Arc or an Elenoire Queen of Aquitaine…”
The marquis distracted him from contemplating the silent work of art that Gaston had just painted with his white furry brush.
“We have a winner! I don’t know how he ejaculated last, because these three girls were hot as hell! But I can admit defeat. Farewell, nice people of this little rural village: the three of us are leaving and I don’t think we’ll ever see each other again! But you have a Hero next door, who never misses a shot! Follow him and always imitate him!”
Gaston looked up and saw everyone clapping joyfully (all those who were not yet jerking off: how loud is one-handed clapping?).
Then Gaston looked down and in the middle of the mess, he recognized two doe-eyes he had known for a long time.
Gaston sighed and said, “LeFou, go wash up…”
“Oops… too much?”
“Yep.”
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An eighteenth-century-style Happy Ending.
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### My contribution to the “Karaoke 2023” Author Challenge.
Do not try to imitate characters from the tale! All the performers in the scene act as professionals (some are a hazardous activities, don’t try it at home).
As you may have noticed somehow, English is not my mother tongue, so please forgive the mistakes. ###