"He looked left and right the way Italian hotel managers look left and right before getting a blow job" --- a short story by Michael Ampersant

Not a short story, really, just a teaser. In-house author Michael Ampersant's piece "Renaissance Miracles" is out in the anthology Best Gay Erotica of the Year from Cleis Press, the notorious imprint.

The notorious imprint

Okay, teaser. Let's start with the beginning:

 Luigi took me aside this morning and said that, however much he enjoys our leetle get-togethers, he can no longer—despite his best efforts and my best efforts—hide the absence of any payments towards Room 312 from the all-knowing reservation system of the Savoy Palace Hotel. He fussed with a drawer, and held up a credit card. Here, he said under his breath, go to the Via de’ Tornabuoni, buy yourself a new outfit, and take up position on the steps of the Loggia della Signoria…that should solve your leetle problems, pretty boy that you are. But don’t forget to return the credit card first.
He then looked left and right the way Italian hotel managers look left and right before getting a blow job, waved me to his side of the reception counter, and there we went again: me squatting in the hollow space under the desk accommodating his Italian dick, while he accommodated a new guest, a Contessa, apparently. I’m a slut, fortunately, I can handle this.

Hiding the absence of any payments towards Room 312

So, that’s why I’m here on the steps of the Loggia sitting next to the marble statue of Cellini’s Perseus, me a wannabe hustler with a boyfriend who, suddenly, last month, discovered his passion for the Tuscan Renaissance and begged me to take him to Florence where he would study with a certain Professore Pellegrini, a mysterious art historian (whom I still haven’t met). So, I took Jamie to Florence in the hope that our challenged, floundering relationship would see its own renaissance amidst the marble willies on the statues there, but—I don’t know what it is, perhaps the marble willies are too small—fact is we haven’t had sex since our arrival, and now we’ve also run out of money. And yet—despite the slut I am—I’m still hopelessly in love with Jamie. He’s so beautiful, Jamie, downright angelic in fact, and when I tell him I love him he listens patiently.

So, there we are

So, there we are, me sporting an A&F-branded T-shirt, Apennine leather shorts, and Buttero running shoes. I shouldn’t give the impression of a rent boy, obviously, so I’m absorbed by my iPhone and take pictures of a crazed woman dressed up like Mae West walking four dogs amidst the 300 people that populate the Piazza della Signoria this spring morning—half of them tourists in sneakers, one quarter Italian (heels, patent leather shoes), and the rest undefined. Undefined is what we need, of course, we have discovered a sudden weakness for budding billionaires with a sense of humor and time on their hands. None of them is in evidence, regrettably, so we take more pictures. We snap the idle horse cabs waiting for tourists, and the patina-infested Poseidon, the main statue of the fountain on the corner of the Palazzo Vecchio.

A black guy has materialized

A black guy has materialized next to the fountain and is taking pictures of the Loggia, meaning he’s taking pictures of me taking pictures of him taking pictures of me and so on. There’s a funny tradeoff in this if it is a come-on—who says who’s coming on to whom? Whether the guy is actually aware of my existence remains to be seen (the Loggia accommodates a dozen statues and three dozen sightseers as we speak), but I’m feeling increasingly aware of him down there in my Apennine leather shorts. I’m a natural.

Any questions? Find the answers here.


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