Reese Gabriel - Captured!--On Film

What did that mean? he wondered. Where would it lead if they were together again?

Suddenly Grigori's mind had changed. Now he really hoped he did find land, any land at all so that he could get to the bottom of this new and potentially very intriguing mystery. The mystery of Grigori and Giovanni. And the electric currents between them. Not to mention a pair of very stiff cocks.

Julie had cried her last tear. For this or any other man. It was time to become a nun. Sitting on her suitcase, she tried in vain to squash it into submission. Finally she abandoned the whole thing, grabbed her purse and headed for the door. Frederica offered her a driver, but she steadfastly refused.

Looking the innocent young man up and down she said, “I'm sorry, Frederica, he has a cock, which means I would rather walk the whole way to the train station bare foot over hot coals than be in the same car with him."

Frederica inclined her head, shooing him off. “I will take you myself,” she concluded. “Where is your luggage?"

Julie explained the situation with the suitcase, not very coherently, she was afraid.

"I'll take care of it,” she soothed. “Let's just get you to the car."

Julie was sobbing by the time Frederica got her seated in the passenger seat of the Fiat. “He … he swam off … Grigori did … and Giovanni … he said…"

"Take a deep breath, sweetie.” Frederica offered her a tissue. “And start from the beginning."

The trunk opened and closed as the would be chauffer put her bag in. Following the young Italian woman's advice, she tried her best to relate all that had happened up to now with regard to the strange triangle of her and Grigori and Giovanni. Naturally she kept the more graphic parts to herself.

"Well, the Maestro is bisexual,” Frederica pointed out.

Julie thought of the man, thrusting in and out of Grigori's ass with such aplomb, that look of sheer ecstasy on his face. “I gathered that, yes."

"But he has never truly been able to love another man. It is one of the great frustrations of his life, though he will not admit it to himself."

This surprised her. “But all the emphasis is always placed on his affairs with women. Hasn't he spent most of his energy over the years on Sofia? Winning her time and again?"

"That's just the trouble,” she turned from the dirt road onto a two lane black top lined with grape vineyards. “He was looking for something she could never give. He thought he saw it in that tortured, warring part of her soul, but what he really needs is the balance of the sexes. Someone with enough testosterone to meet him head on."

Julie watched the workers in the fields, meticulously picking the succulent green fruit. They were old women mostly, kerchiefs on their heads, stooped low in the hot sun. Watching them, she was having this crazy notion of the three of them, she Grigori and Giovanni hammering out some sort of relationship. Each meeting the needs of the other two, pairing off and coming together in any number of ways. It seemed absurb. Two men, one woman. Three different birth decades, three languages and cultures. Still, who could argue with how good they'd been in bed together last night? It was the best sex she'd had in her life. Far from being chaotic or impersonal, having three of them had made it feel all the more intimate. And kinky, too. She could watch to her heart's content, and she could join in, too. She could surrender to her every desire, pleasing two cocks for the price of one, or simply lay back and allow herself to be pampered by the men. She felt incredibly special this way, and important. She could sense she was balancing them, making it possible for them to connect. She was so very glad of this. More than anything, she wanted both men happy. And if she could be a part of that, all the better.

It struck her then, as they approached the ancient terra cotta walls of the town, what if she loved them both? Was such a thing possible? Was it allowable in the moral scheme of things? Certainly not in Iowa. Then again she wasn't about to return to Iowa.

Or to Hollywood, either.

This last decision, made at this very moment surprised her. She hadn't realized she was through with all of that, the glitter, and the hype, the phoniness, bowing and scraping and back stabbing. As much as she loved her dreams, she wasn't going to whither away and die in pursuit of them. Yes, it was time to give up the ghost, she thought. Time to start somewhere fresh.

"Frederica,” she asked. “If you were going to America, where would you go?"

"New York,” she said without hesitation. “I would go to New York."

"Yes,” Julie agreed. “That's a splendid idea. I will go there, too."

"Careful,” Frederica teased. “There are lots of cocks there, from what they tell me."

"And lots of pricks, too,” she agreed, playing off the American slang. “But don't worry, I intend to keep my nose clean."

The question was, what would she do about her heart? It needed not only cleaning, but mending. Hope, she decided. That was what she needed. Just as her grandmother used to tell her. Take your deepest wish, tuck it in a box and forget it … and when it is totally forgotten and only then can it come true.

And so she would have to learn to forget Grigori and Giovanni both. In other that one day, against all odds, all reason, she might have them again. Both of them. Forever.

"I would like the lights down,” said Grigori in English, his accent thicker as yet than he would prefer. “So the actors will not see us."

"Certainly, sir,” bowed his assistant director, thrilled to be working with the man dubbed by Play Review magazine as the most brilliant up and coming playwright and director in decades.

"Thank you,” Grigori took his seat in the middle of the theater, dead center. It was audition time for the New York staging of his play “Seasons of Lust.” Backers were lining up around the block to invest and every actor and would be actor in town was trying out for a part. Everyone was saying the play would steal the thunder next season on Broadway just as it had earlier in London and Moscow.

And to think this new genius had come from nowhere. Just a year ago he'd been an unemployed bear wrestler, fresh off a disastrous attempt at acting with the Great Maestro Giovanni. Swimming away from all he knew, he had found his way stranded at sea. A fishing boat had rescued him and he'd found his way eventually to Greece. It was there, while walking to the ancient Acropolis that he had been struck by the muse. Less supernaturally minded folks might say it was sun poisoning, but when he'd awoken after passing out on the ground, the cold water splashing his cheeks and eyes, he was not the same man. A fire now burned within, a churning energy that could only be relieved by writing. For three days and nights he sat in a dingy Athens motel room, scribbling feverishly in notebook after notebook. It all came alive to him-people, places, scenes, characters born out of that raw fire.

With each page he felt a little more peace, though he could feel it building again if he slowed down for any reason. The first two books were filled with incongruity, bits and pieces that did not fall together. But the third had clear voices, three parts. A female, two males, speaking and addressing the timeless questions of love, and of course the meaning of sex. He knew at once it could be revolutionary, calling into question the age old idea that a relationship must be between two persons only. He also knew that its time had come. Controversial it would be, but not ignored.

His trouble was that he had written his masterpiece in a language spoken only by around ten million people in a world population of several billion. There was simply no way a play in Daskalovian could be produced for a larger audience. At the same time, Grigori knew he could never allow anyone else to translate it for him. Hence his immersal studies in the language.