His Serene Highness --- Florence (3)


By Michael Ampersant



Dex & Jamie, the characters of Jamie 1.0, have wandered off the reservation and taken up residence in Florence. Dex has been trying his luck on the Piazza della Signoria, striking up a nodding acquaintance with a ravishing black guy, an then going all out for a mile-high adventure under da Vinci's Annunciation.




I’m sitting on our king-sized hotel bed trying to turn my last sentence into some resemblance of a poem celebrating our friendship---I’m always trying to live up to Jamie’s high standards---and the bed-side phone rings. These phones have stopped ringing unless it’s from the reception desk, meaning a visitor’s calling whose name is something like Shah Ruk Khan. He has an Indian accent and informs me he’s ordered “on the highest authority to present a gift to the young sir---a bestowal from His Serene Highness.” Two minutes later a midget in a turban enters our hotel room, followed by a black porter pushing a dolly. On the dolly sits a box, styled like an oversized Christmas present wrapped cross-wise in silky red ribbon. Jamie raises his eyes from his yellow math book.

The turban---oriental tails in white colors, pantaloon trousers from 1001 Nights---bows elaborately in all directions. He apologizes for taking the precious time of the young, distinguished sirs, bowing in Jamie’s direction especially---meaning possibly that he didn’t expect him---and yet it has pleased his serene master to “extend a most humble bestowal upon the Esquire Dexter Berkeley.”
“That’s him,” Jamie says.
Whether I would be willing to accept said bestowal, the midget asks. I look at Jamie. “Sure,” we answer. “What is it?”
The turban motions the porter who undoes the oversized red-ribbon bow at the top of the box. The cover is lifted and the sides fall apart to reveal a six-foot, shiny, metallic-looking copy of Michelangelo’s David.

“A compact manifold,” Jamie says. “Always useful. Can we keep it?”

The turban raises his right hand, harrumphs. “As the most precious young sirs are doubtlessly aware,” he says, “the bestowal is shaped according to the most priceless statue known to mankind. It represents stupendously more, however, as it has been fashioned according to time-honored secrets of imperceptible depth and meaning, all this by a contemporary artist and friend of His Serene Highness. Sacred vows and a certain sense of showmanship bind me to a sealed mouth, but the young sirs should not be surprised if the statue is bound to live an interesting life of its own. And should that happen, His Highness would be most obliged to answer any questions at hand, were it by phone, email, or other channels of foreign-returned communications.”

With this, he fingers in his pantaloon pockets and hands me a piece of white, embossed cardboard---an oversized calling card it looks like, naming a certain Prince Haiba, Kushoto Moja. Serene Wake Mtukufu. There’s also a 255-prefixed phone number and an email address: HSH@Zanzibar.net.

Our visitor is about to bid his farewell. He bows some more, retracing his turban steps, still facing the young sirs in their $500 hotel room as if this were the end of an audience in some Maharaja palace. “Hold on,” Jamie cat-calls.
“Yes, young sir.” the Turban answers.
“Your statue, six feet high and metallic, it blocks the way to the bathroom,” Jamie says. “How are we going to move it around?”
“Distinguished young sir,” the Turban replies. “See for yourself; you will not be disappointed.” And with this, Shah Ruk Khan retracts his nose and the hotel door falls into its electronic lock.

Jamie studies the imitation David. Jamie wouldn’t undertake any physical action unless all thought experiments have failed, and so it’s me who walks up to the statue, grips it at its hips and---spoiler alert---lifts it effortlessly---almost as effortlessly as John-the-billionaire lifted me this morning. It’s very light, the contraption, feeling more like the stylized balloon of a children’s party than a venerable copy of priceless art. I deposit the thing on the far side of the expensive hotel room that we can now afford for two-hundred more days (see previous flash).

“Funny,” Jamie say, smiling like Mona Lisa and marveling---as always---at the sheer presence of physical reality. “Dex,” he adds. “I have a conjecture. And you will like it. Let’s undress.” He chucks his bath robe (he was still in his bath robe, he usually is) and stretches out, supine, on the silky covers of the king-sized bed. When we have sex, it’s always like this, it's like our bed is an altar on which he’s offering himself, granting favors, never demanding anything special, not doing much himself, even though he never fails to get there fairly quick, too quick in fact for anything special to happen. In later installments of this soap I hope to go into details but let’s stay focused. So, we make love---his expression, and him using the expression being the only palpable sign of something deeper between us, something more of a give-and-take. I think of myself as an average guy---despite my easy looks or expensive clothes---and I take my boundless love for Jamie as my only raison d’ĂȘtre on this planet. Believe me.

So, we make love. It lasts five minutes, normally, always the best five minutes of my life. I’ve tried to explain this to him once---carefully choosing my words while somehow trying to get the message across that erotic know-how can’t have much to do with this, and him suggesting that we are dealing with conditional transcendence here---mediocre sex (“if that’s what you mean”) being transformed into something better, or higher, by our friendship. 

I always thought that Jamie keeps his eyes closed, but three minutes into this he says: “Look, Dex, I was right. Look.” He turns his head and points his chin at the statue in the corner. You may know about this, about the world-famous dimensions of David’s tiny prick---but there, there, our David has managed to turn his metallic penis into a sizable erection, six inches at least, pointing effortlessly at us, the foreskin retracted, the cock lips shiny and reverberating in the lazy light of an expensive hotel room. And David’s gaze, normally glancing hesitantly over the left shoulder, is trained directly on us.

“Maybe we should call this Serene Highness, find out,” Jamie says.
“Now?” I ask.
“No,” he answers, “lets finish first.”

What’s this? Little Jamie has wrapped his arms around my neck, clutched my shoulders, and answers to the rhythm of my thrusts. He moans (he’s usually quiet during the proceedings). He moans again, (“uuggh, uugh”). He moans more (“fuck, fuck,”). And now he’s coming with a cry, (“Dex, Dex”), contracting, spouting x times, more cum than usual, and when he’s done he puts his hands to my cheeks and applies a big kiss.

I turn around to check on the statue, but David is back to normal, glancing hesitantly over his left shoulder, penis at rest.


Michael Ampersant writes literary erotica. His first book, GREEN EYES, was a finalist of the Lambda Literary Awards last year.

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