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Moon over Morocco

By Dangeris F.A.G.

(This is the eight installment of our series on Romàn & Clay, the irresistible avant-garde team of sexual liberation; enjoy:)

He had met his Moroccan guide in Malaga

Roman was being sodomized by a colossal Siberian tiger – its blazing, golden eyes bearing down on him. Fuck, Roman thought, I haven’t read Blake since high school. Hendrix was somewhere, soloing on “A Night in Tunisia.” Roman was on his back, passive under the thrusting animal. He looked down wondering what this tiger’s, any tiger’s, penis looked like, but there was too much fur to tell. For some reason he asked, “Who are you?"

    “Isn’t it obvious?” said the beast. “I’m your mother.”

    He awoke crying, “Maman!” though his voice didn’t work. Roman was almost dead. He was hanging by his wrists from the ceiling and someone was plunging something really big up his ass. He did not feel like being heroic – it hurt a lot. He faintly thought, This is deathly fucking serious! Looking down he found a video monitor on which he witnessed a naked man hanging by his wrists, his head lolling, mouth drooling, entire body covered in white paint. Jesus! (Yes, he thought he was studying some variation of the dying martyr.) Then he realized he was looking at himself.
Flies circled. He could barely breathe or lift his feet, and he could only raise his head enough to get a glimpse of Fayyad’s studio and the fixed video camera five feet away, though he couldn’t recall Fayyad’s name or even his own whereabouts -- Malaga? Gibraltar? Tangier? His heart gave a thud. He puked. But nothing came. Whatever was plundering his ass was bigger than any human penis, bigger than anything in an ass should be. “Maman!” he cried again. “Please leave my butt alone!” Though it came out sotto voce, in mere gibberish given that the white paint was suffocating his body, plunging him into shock. He blacked out again, which left him mercifully unheedful of the prospect of dying.

But instead of dying Roman awoke suddenly when his limp body was submerged, below the neck, in a cool, fizzy bath that smelled like rosewater and alcohol. He was severely parched and so he mumbled his first word: “Water.”

After the bath Fayyad and his young male servants put him to bed on a pallet in a white, clean, empty room where he had plenty of water and time to recollect the events that brought him here.

*     *     *

He had met his Moroccan “guide,” Nasir, at Cooper Pewhole’s coastal villa in Malaga, Spain. Nasir was a funny, intelligent, very attractive boy who, like most Moroccan intellectuals, spoke perfect French. He looked seventeen but was actually twenty-four, and he’d studied philosophy at the Sorbonne. He wore European clothes and giggled a lot. Roman told Nasir how he’d always dreamed of visiting Morocco.

“Ah, but my country is not the same as in the days of the Beats and Vidal and Genet and Orton and so forth. It is no longer a place of cheap rugs and even cheaper boys but is dangerous for us homosexuals now. More like Paul Bowles’s ugly stories.”

“I know,” Roman said. “So where do we start? Let’s start with Tangier, right across the Strait. Please be my guide, Nasir. I promise,” he said, “to behave myself. Believe me, I only want a vacation from the fucking sex industry.”

"So, where do we start?"

Cooper Pewhole, learning of their travel plans,  suggested they drop in on his philanthropist friend Fayyad, who had paid him millions for his work and in fact commissioned several of the most aberrent pieces Cooper had ever produced. Fayyad’s “compound” was just up the coast from Tangier, on Cape Malabata. It was famous for its goings-on, Fayyad’s fortress, and it was quite off limits to authorities. “I’ve never been,” Cooper told Roman in English. “I’m too busy. But I’ve heard the hype. I’ll phone him and arrange it, and then you gotta tell me exactly what you found. Okay? Get pictures.”

*     *     *

   Roman still lay recovering on his pallet in his white, clean, room. Fayyad sat close by holding his hand and stroking up and down the length of his bare legs. The last thing Roman remembered was allowing Fayyad and his servants to suspend him from the ceiling for what he was told would merely be a few photographs. No, that wasn’t the last. The last thing was a dark, fat, sweaty boy in a burnoose injecting in his elbow what must’ve been heroin, very pure and . . .

"How are you feeling?"

“How are you feeling?” Fayyad asked in French, smiling.
“How the fuck do you want me to feel?” asked Roman in return. “How do you feel?” To him, Fayyad was a very ugly man. He looked like that media guru mess Deepak Chopra in a fez. This WAS an ugly Paul Bowles story.
    “I am quite well, thank you.”
    “Good. So are you finished with trying to kill me? You realize lots of my people know I’m here, right? Including Cooper Pewhole. Where’s my phone?”
    “That was not our intention, to kill you, young beauty. You are our famous guest – our beautiful Franco-Italian-American friend – hahaha – and we would never kill you.”

    Roman snatched his hand away from the grinning devil and rolled over, turning his back, his ass, where it was evident that some blood was still escaping Roman’s anus, spotting the saffron colored sheet, and Fayyad dabbed it away with a cool damp cloth while Roman only sobbed as quietly as he could.

    He slept and woke for another day, and each time he woke Fayyad was there beside him. He forced down some invalid soup, and whenever he had to piss Fayyad insisted on holding a decorative cloisonne chamber pot between his legs. Roman would not speak to Fayyad except to ask, “Where is Nasir? Where are my things? My luggage and passport, my money, my phone?” Each time Fayyad answered only “Your belongings are quite safe, my dear.”

    Late on the third night Roman woke bathed in sweat. His fever had broken and he felt much better. Also, someone had climbed into his bed. He opened his eyes (it was the first time the flickering oil lamps didn’t hurt his eyes) on Nasir, who kissed him and said, “My dear friend. What have they done to you?” Tears dripped from Nasir’s black eyes.

Also, someone had climbed into his bed

Roman laughed for joy and wiped the boy’s tears away with his fingertips. “I’m better now, thank you, even if my ass still hurts. Did you watch it, Nasir? Did you see what they did to me?”

    “No. They kept me away. In a pensionne in Tangier. I was only just now permitted to return. But they described it to me. It sounded dreadful. Drugging you, painting your body. I was so worried. Forgive me for bringing you here, Romeo” (his pet name for Roman). More tears.

    “No, my monkey (Roman’s pet name for Nasir). I begged you to bring me – though maybe not to this place. This place is Cooper Pewhole’s fault. He didn’t mean to but he put us both in danger. I think the white paint thing was meant to be political or some such shit.”

    Nasir suddenly leaped off the bed shouting, “But you must be starving!” He’d brought with him a serving tray crowded with platters of fresh food – orange wedges, almonds, dates, figs, olives, flat bread and baguette, spiced goat cheese, couscous and cold lamb. A mellow red wine from the Atlas Mountain region.

    They both were hungry, and the meal did much to restore their strength and spirit.  

Afterwards they took a stroll in the garden

 Afterwards they took a stroll in the garden, which seemed vast, and even though it was past midnight the  gibbous moon illuminated Fayyad’s fragrant orchards, the date palms and terra cotta walkways and even Fayyad’s sculpture garden of black marble male nudes. The air was warm and breezy coming from the sea, and Roman wore a light djellaba which allowed the breeze to waft upward between his legs. Hearing him laugh at this Nasir said, “Ah, so you enjoy the pleasures of our dress.” Then he said, with mock mystery and solemnity, “But when the wind comes from the south – from Marrakech, where I was born, and the Sahara – then it smells of emptiness and despair.” Suddenly Nasir started to laugh hysterically. He ran to one of the black statues, an enormous seated nude holding a fruit-gathering bowl in his lap, and when he reached it Nasir pulled his burnoose off over his head, kicked off his sandals, climbed into the bowl and lay back howling with laughter, his legs dancing in air.

    There Roman raped him, tenderly and privately, under the bright Mediterranean moon. He’d wanted to since they met.

    And thus refreshed they walked  down to the beach, where they again shed their robes and bounded naked into the sea.

    In the morning Fayyad found the two asleep in each other’s arms, and he woke them with a light pat on their exposed bottoms.

    Immediately Roman sat up and covered their nakedness with a fresh silk sheet that had been provided while they were out. “Go away, snake!”
    “Now now,” Fayyad scolded back smiling stupidly.

The boy standing behind the befezed Fayyad was something else altogether – a white European skinhead wearing . . .  nothing. This boy stepped forward, his pale body infested with tattoos, and he stood grinning down at them with gold teeth and multiple facial piercings. Fayyad introduced him: “This is Tommy. Tommy is from Manchester in England.”
Nasir said, “I never could have guessed.”

“The juxtaposition’s fucking weird,” said Roman eyeing the two back and forth.
“What’d ‘e say?” Of course Tommy didn’t speak a word of French.

“Nasir and I will be leaving,” Roman told Fayyad. “Please return my things. Now.”
“As you wish,” said Fayyad. “However, you will please accept our invitation to spend one more night here. You will be richly rewarded, I assure you. Both of you. You see, there’s more work to be done.”

“Work,” said Roman in English. He was exasperated: “Later for your bullshit, dude.”

"Will you please accept our invitation?"

Tommy chuckled, grateful for some English communication. And it turned out Fayyad could speak some English. He said, “You will not protest this work, my friends. Look at Tommy. Is he not sexy danger?”

Truthfully Roman couldn’t dispute it. To him, and maybe Nasir, Tommy had one of those menacing punk physiques: militantly Caucasian, attractively underfed, his sinews standing out, connecting  the  bone and thin fighting muscles. Roman was rather surprised to notice Tommy was circumcised, and his semi bore at its tip a rather large Prince Albert. Yeah, Roman had a taste for Tommy. He was thrown off – he’d wanted to travel south rather than north because he preferred this climate and Nasir’s body type at this time, and because Nasir was kind and cheerful and remarkably docile, and Roman had needed to escape the industry for a while, a short vacation from his practiced philosophy of NO PAIN, NO PLEASURE. “What work?” he said, returning to French. “You won’t touch my asshole again! You’ve already damaged it, maybe beyond repair, maybe forever.”

“Of course not. As you prefer. No, no other harm will come to you, my dear. We do regret taking such liberties as before. This time, this evening, you will control the circumstances, you’ll see. Please allow us to grant you this mitigating opportunity. You will supervise the proceedings, exactly to your liking. We understand that you’re quite skilled at this, lovely boy.” In English: “Now if you please, have a pleasant swim in our pool and enjoy a breakfast which will be brought to you in the open air. Use the afternoon to rest. Tommy here will be waiting for you when the day grows dark. Show them, Tommy!”

Tommy spun around to revdal his exquisite buttocks

At Fayyad’s invitation Tommy spun around to reveal his perfectly exquisite buttocks, and appearing on the upper portion of one was a tattooed swastika – also no surprise. As he bent over Tommy reached back to spread out and expose his purple entryway made somewhat more dusky and decidedly more attractive by a modest crop of brown hair.

Nasir and Roman looked at each other, nodding. “Tommy is very bad,” Nasir giggled.
“’ow d’ya like me turvey?” Tommy asked them.

Roman answered: “Cheeky.”

Tommy then straightened up and smacked his dimpled swastika. Turning his front again he hooked his little finger through the Prince Albert ring and lifted his cock to his belly, thus allowing his low hangers to slap back and forth against his thighs while he swiveled his hips: “Wha’da’ya think ‘o me ‘airy figs then? Haha! Me Kiwis?”

Fayyad laughed along with Tommy’s little exhibition: “Is he not charming, my bad, sexy friend Tommy?”

Breakfast was a reprise of last night’s supper, and Roman filled up on the ripe fruits. He had an idea for how he might strike back against Fayyad tonight. Because it turned out Roman’s digestion was unaccustomed to this volume of fruit, it made him shit awful cherry bomb soup! That and the bidet reminded him, too, that his ass had not yet mended.

In the afternoon Nasir and Roman ambled around some more in Fayyad’s garden of good and evil, where boys in bright caftans and bare feet plucked fruit, picked herbs, weeded flower beds, spaded the soil and spread fertilizer. (Fayyad’s harem was much prettier and more useful than girls could ever be.) Brown monkeys played around the boys’ feet and leaped and swung in the trees. The fountains spurted and trickled.

The sun was blazing---they walked together under a wide umbrella. Soon they encountered a very dark-skinned Nubian boy pushing a wheelbarrow of mulch. He stopped before them, lowered his burden and wiped his dripping brow with the sleeve of his djellaba. He addressed them excitedly in a Berber dialect, which Nasir had to translate. “He says welcome to us, and that we’re to be witnessed by many important guests tonight. And that they’re all, the boys working here, making the garden ready and collecting the food they will serve. The chef is making the other food ready.”

The boy then wiped his hands on his gown, smiling his perfect, gleaming teeth. He gave them each a ripe plum from his pocket, then continued on with his work.

The stage was a room: a typical enough space in a Moroccan dar – high ceiling, thick walls, two windows without glass 20 feet above the floor, decorative tile, painted furniture, piles of embroidered pillows, hand-woven rugs, musky incense, oil lamps and candles, screens and tapestries illustrated with naked Berber warriors from the 11th century. No cameras visible but the overhead track cams – the other cameras were hidden behind a long one-way black mirror on one wall. 

Roman and Nasir had been told of these and that the audience of more than fifty “gentlemen” would view and hear the scene in real time on several big screens somewhere else in Fayyad’s immense palace. And this unseen fraternity’s commendations would be plainly audible over speakers on the wall.

The stage was a room

In the center of this room they found Tommy waving his long, stiff cock very near to a cobra. The snake’s body was also erect and swaying its upper length along with Tommy’s “flute.” In fact, the Prince Albert in Tommy’s cockhead came almost close enough to the serpent to whack it in its hooded head and fangy mouth.
Wow. The spectacle was giving Roman an erection, but Nasir merely seemed to attend with polite curiosity.

“Oscar,” said Tommy turning to them. “’e’s me mate, ain’t ya, Oscar?” As he stepped away from Oscar toward Roman and Nasir, Oscar lowered his body to the floor and slithered very swiftly toward a dark corner. Watching him go, Tommy said, “Look, ya bloody well scared ‘im.”

The speakers emitted polite applause for Tommy’s snake-charming performance while Tommy faced the mirror and took a low bow.

“That was thrilling, Tommy,” Roman said, and the tent pole in his burnoose confirmed it. Tommy approached Roman and crouched down to raise Roman’s ankle-length gown up slowly over his head. Roman lifted his arms to allow it as Tommy slowly revealed Roman’s naked body. Then he did the same to Nasir.

Somewhat greater applause.

“How come you’re circumcised?” asked Roman wrapping his fingers around Tommy’s cock and thumbing the ring. “Thought you Brits all wore the hood.”

“Can’t ‘elp it, mate,” Tommy said, “me mum’s a Jew.”

“No shit?” said Roman. Because he loved his mother Roman was thrown off again.
Nasir looked nervous. Scanning the floor he asked Tommy in English, “Where is serpent?”

“Got ‘im right ‘ere,” Tommy said grinning his gold teeth and grabbing down on his upturned dick.

Nasir was unamused. He continued peering earnestly along the floor. “Is bite fatal?” he asked.

“Oscar’s like a ‘oney bee, ‘e’ll only sting if ya sit on ‘im.”
Roman was getting bored. “So what’s next, Tommy?”
“Your show, mate. Teach us what a Frenchie wanker can do then.”

So, Roman the author thought fast

So Roman the author thought fast. He looked around. No toys, no tools. And he’d never been live on video for an invisible, remotely situated audience, at least an audience bigger than a dorm room full of horny college boys online. His reading of the unseen audience was that they definitely liked the thing with Oscar, so okay, they wanted a real show. Very well, Roman would give it to them. He began by clearing the floor of a large rug and having Nasir and Tommy lie on their backs in 69 formation just before the black mirror. But before they were quite in place he had already begun tinkling an aperitif of piss on them. Tommy sat up and drank it in. Gulped. Belched.

Further applause. And Roman was quite aroused by it. Maybe I’m addicted to being watched, he thought.

Nasir only giggled as he stroked his dick under the warm drizzle while at the same time watching anxiously for Oscar.

Roman abruptly cut off his stream, however. He was saving the better part for this: “Get up,” he ordered Tommy. He dragged over a hard chair and had Tommy stand on it, facing the chair back, and squat. He expected there would at least be lube. (How, he wondered, am I expected to “work” without the essentials?) So in its absence Roman dropped to his knees and used his tongue and spit on the hole while he slapped Tommy’s swastika tattoo into redness. Then he stood and buried one, then two fingers up Tommy’s well-worn, semi-hairy, slippery pooper.

Tommy wanked, voicing approval. “Yeah. Feels good, mate.”

Roman told him, “I’m gonna piss fuck you, dude. And you better hold it in till I tell you where I want you to put it next. Ya dig?”

“Got it, mate,” said Tommy. Nevertheless, he yelped, “Bloody ‘ell!” when Roman pushed his long, thick wherewithal in and immediately drove deep.

The resulting ovation was appreciated.

Roman’s thrusting lasted only a moment, however, before he gratefully relieved himself of the rest of his urine deep within Tommy’s guts, and before he was finished he could already smell Tommy’s shit. Fuck! No towels even. And of course he wasn’t about to soil a pillow or a priceless tapestry. “Don’t fucking move,” he said and walked around the chair to Tommy’s face and wiped his dirty dick on it, making filthy stripes down Tommy’s cheeks and on the bridge of his nose, like putrid war paint. Tommy only hummed with pleasure, breathing it in while looking Roman square in the eye.

Instantly flies gathered.

Vigorous applause. Shouts of bravo.

Vigorous applause. Shouts of bravo.

Because Roman had made sure the red winking eye of the overhead track camera caught it all.

Meanwhile, what of Nasir? He stood behind Tommy and began pissing, and he made his stream collide with Tommy’s shit-fouled ass spider -- a cleansing bidet was Nasir.
More audience validation.

Nasir then fell to his knees directly under Tommy’s outspread moons and rehabilitated, puckered butt gasket. He pleaded in English, “Please allow me to receive your blessing from Tommy, Romeo!”

“Wait!” demanded Roman.

But it was too late. Tommy was already releasing the contents of his bladder, hosing a torrent down over Nasir’s waiting head and shoulders.

More fervent applause.

During this evacuation Tommy kept his evil eye steady on Roman’s angry one – because Roman’s piss had been meant for something else, maybe for himself. He hadn’t quite worked it out yet.

Nasir appeared ecstatic, though, to the overhead camera, which captured him gargling some while eagerly fingering his own butthole and finally jetting out a gushing, delirious orgasm.

Never had Roman suspected Nasir of being such a freak.

But Roman already knew what he was going to do next, for his finale. It had been planned from the moment Fayyad more or less imprisoned him, forced him to stay here and, like a slave, “work” for him after inflicting on Roman a near-death experience. He hated this monster Fayyad. He hated Tommy. And, for the moment, he even hated Nasir for taking his (Roman’s) piss from Tommy’s ass after staring up at Tommy’s clenched bunghole and the black swastika on the half-Jew Nazi’s milky white ass mound, and liking it! And he hated the hooligan Tommy furthermore because he didn’t do what the idiotic symbology on his ass was meant for and fight. Roman was unaccustomed to feeling real hate, rage even, but his customary humor had been obstructed by recent events. So he knew what he had to do now. After all, this was only play politics, wasn’t it? And theater?

But just then a funny thing happened. Nasir had been standing naked, cold, wet, shivering. Then, suddenly, they heard him shriek. Thus they all witnessed the return of Oscar boldly slithering from the shadows, back toward the three naughty boys.

Nasir swiftly fled the room, leaving his clothes behind. Probably a good thing, Roman sensed, expecting Nasir might not like this next part.

But Oscar’s reappearance is timely, it turns out, for Roman’s plan. The audience now see Roman still standing before Tommy’s shit-streaked, bony, metallic face. So now, using all his strength, Roman shoves Tommy backwards, chair and all, and it all comes crashing down on the piss-puddled floor, all of it in very close proximity of the startled cobra.

For a moment, Tommy lay stunned

For a moment Tommy lay stunned. Then, attempting to come to his feet, maybe to fight back, he slips in the puddle and splashes down again, which is when the angry snake strikes, right between Tommy’s ribs -- Tommy doesn’t appear to notice – after which the aggrieved serpent immediately races away. And while its venom flows into Tommy’s blood Roman straddles Tommy’s head, lowers his ass in a semi-crouch, and discharges a great deal of black, runny shit onto Tommy’s already filthy face. At the same time Roman peers up at the blinking eye of the overhead cam and extends his middle finger to Fayyad and his invited guests.

Tommy lay sputtering out the shit storm while, impressively, stroking his pierced cock to ejaculation.

So has this been a victory for Roman? Most definitely. For by now the chorus of cheers has risen to fever pitch, to a frenzy.

Maybe Roman is tempted to spit on Tommy too, just to top it off, but instead he takes a deep bow toward the black mirror and the speakers’ continuing approbation, casually gathers up his caftan and sandals and exits the room to join his friend Nasir in the pool under the full, white moon in a cloudless Moroccan night sky.

So as they were finally leaving, Roman’s last words to Fayyad were to ask whether Tommy was being looked after – what with the snake bite and all.

“Oh yes, Tommy,” said Fayyad putting on that repugnant smile. “We’re all watching him die. We’re enjoying it immensely. Hehe. Tommy is only vomit, you understand, and motor oil. I’ll send you a video of his expiration, dear, if you like.”

Ah, poor Tommy

Ah, poor Tommy.

And finally, as their chauffeur drove them quickly past the armed guards at Fayyad’s compound gate to return them safely back to their hotel in Tangier, Roman told Nasir with a bleary sigh, “That shit’s definitely gonna make it into my memoir.”

 <Go here for the previous R&C story, and here for the next one>

Dangeris F.A.G. (his nom de plume) lives deeply and obscurely in the American fly-over, between north and south, where he tought creative writing at a college  -- he is older than he oughta be. This is the eight part of a short story collection built on Romàn & Clay's characters. More are forthcoming.