That night, after the gallery closed, Sandy and I went up to the roof of the gallery with a futon and a triangular bolster, and we made wild, exhausting love under the stars and clear skies. Sandy wanted me rough and hard and deep inside him, repeatedly, and I obliged, pushing him first belly over the bolster and fucking hard down into him from the rear and then turning him with his back on the broad side of the bolster and rocking him on my cock back and forth on the edge of the triangle until we collapsed in a satiated heap. We fucked as if it was our last time, both of us thinking of the unfortunate split between Rocco and Sebastien—and feeling very vulnerable and sorry for ourselves as well. We kept looking up the hill to the old stone villa that was usually fully lit up at this time of night and alive with the sound of conviviality. But tonight it was dark and brooding. And then with nothing else I could do, I centered my frustration on twisting and turning and churning my cock inside Sandy until his cries for more subsided into whimperings of being well and completely undone.
The situation remained dark and brooding for weeks, as Rocco sank deeper in his depression. And often he was not there when we went up the hill to check on him. When he was there, we saw that he wasn’t working on anything in his studio. He didn’t even have his charcoals out and set up. But there was a mounting collection of empty scotch bottles lined up on and behind his bar. He was polite and welcoming to our presence, but in a absent, quiet way he had never displayed before. For a brief time then we thought that he was coming out of his depression. There were signs that he was painting again. And when his first post-Sebastien work was delivered down the hill to be hung in our gallery, Sandy’s eyes flashed with pleasure. It was an acrylic painting; it caught the gaiety of St. Julian’s harbor and the separate blues of the Mediterranean and the bright sky perfectly, and it was far better than the charcoals Rocco had been doing before. And, justifying much, it was snapped up at the asking price by an oohing and ahhing buyer within days.
But then no more paintings came down the hill and we saw little of Rocco for two weeks. It wasn’t long after that before we heard where he was going most evenings and what was absorbing his time. There was a new bartender from Venice at Tom’s Bar in Floriana. Sandy dragged me over there one night just to check the rumor out and it was confirmed and we were totally distressed. Rocco was sitting there at the bar mooning over a swishy little transvestite who was serving him scotches. Giorgio was a cute little trick, but not something that we’d ever seen attract Rocco before—and he certainly wasn’t any Sebastien. Sebastien was elegant and glib and had a great sense of humor. This Giorgio was pretty all right, but he was also coarse and a little piggish and reminded me of a ferret searching for food to steal.
Rocco saw Sandy and me lurking in the shadows of the club. He called us over, and we tried to be polite and inviting, but it was obvious that Giorgio saw us instantly as an intrusion and a threat.
Rocco suggested that we all meet at a seaside café over in St. George’s the next day for one of our “catty gatherings,” as we called them. He said he had missed our outings, and we readily—and genuinely with pleasure—agreed. We had sorely missed the outings as well. It was, of course, a disaster. Whereas the delicate balance of Rocco, Sebastien, Sandy, and Hank had been a perfect, made in heaven, meringue, the replacement of Sebastien with Giorgio was a flopped soufflé. Giorgio resented every word spoken by Rocco to either Sandy or me; he was crudely vocal while saying he failed to see any of the well-crafted digs we made about passers by; and his own contributions were consistently dumb and off key. Rocco didn’t seem to notice, but the rest of us certainly did. As stupid as he was, the odd-transvestite-out message certainly wasn’t lost on Giorgio.
This being the case, and Giorgio being Giorgio, and Giorgio already having learned what a good deal living under Rocco’s roof was, it was obvious to Sandy and me where this was heading.
The declaration of war came within a week. We had included Rocco’s pastels we still had on hand in a gallery opening cocktail party when a cruise ship ripe with rich Americans was scheduled to dock at St. Julian’s. We sent Rocco an invitation to be present and to use his abundant charm to help flog his work to the tourists. He didn’t answer the invitation; but, then, he never had before and still he’d always shown up. This time he didn’t materialize. At the height of the opening, when it was evident that Rocco could sell some of his pieces if he only was there, Sandy suggested I take the Alpha Romeo and zip up the hill and bring him down.
No one answered the door, so I pushed it open, as we had been given permission to do, and went in. I was about to mount the stairs to the studio when I heard low moaning coming from the terrace. I went over to the French window to discover that it was Rocco who was doing the moaning. He was sitting, naked in a chair by the pool, his back to me. Giorgio, in full dress, was straddling his lap, facing him. Giorgio’s face was fully made up with a vivid slash of red lipstick across his face. He was wearing a wig of long, black hair, which he was swishing around on Rocco’s knees with his head thrown back. The bodice of his dress was pulled down to his waist and his black, lacy brassiere was hanging open. His skirt was also hiked up to his waist and he was waving two, thin, shapely legs on either side of the back of the chair. His legs were encased in long black stockings, and he was pointing the toes of stiletto heels at me. Giorgio was in motion, his answer for a pussy being moved back and forth on Rocco’s cock. The transvestite was mewing softly, and Rocco was moaning and grunting at the effort of the fuck. Giorgio lifted his head and saw me standing inside the French window. He gave me a languid, self-satisfied stare with mascaraed slitted eyelids. With one hand, he pulled Rocco’s face into his chest, and I heard the suckling sounds of lips on a nipple. And with the other hand Giorgio, slowly lifted his palm and gave me a distinct, universally understood one-finger salute.
There was no doubt in my mind that the invitation to the gallery opening had never been brought to Rocco’s attention.
When we had last met at the café in St. George’s we had set the next gathering date in the harbor at St. Julian’s. At the appointed date and time, Sandy and I were at the café, willing to try our best to make this work, both for Rocco’s sake and for our own. A half hour after we were supposed to meet, we saw Rocco and Giorgio strolling on the other side of the harbor. Giorgio, a shapely and saucy blonde this time in a smart morning dress, was compelling Rocco to look at the displays in the shop windows, turned away from the harbor. Giorgio was giving Sandy and me looks, however. They were looks of hostility and triumph. And once again there was that raised one-finger salute out of Rocco’s view before the two turned into a street running up the hill from the harbor and disappeared.