The story is written in collaboration with my friend Fred in Norway and is completely fictional. Ivar is a youngster of the writer's imagination, and so are the men he meets on his `educational journey'.
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Europe with Spartacus
Chapter 8 Paris (1975)
Ivar stretched and yawned. His back and neck were a bit stiff after the strange bed, and it was also very hot up in the attic room. He missed his summer duvet at home. He had always slept nude, summer and winter - a heavy eiderdown duvet in winter, and a very light one in summer. To sleep with just a sheet as cover was very uncomfortable for him. "Maybe the landlord has a blanket for me," the young man said to himself as he tried to find some decent clothes in his rucksack.
"Wish I had a mirror here," was his next thought. Soon after he was ready for a night out in Paris. He had put on a new pair of rust-red corduroy trousers, tight as sausage skin around his hips, with no pockets, no fly and no belt. There was no room for real underwear so he had put on light white netting underpants. The boy's buttock globes filled the trousers and if he had to bend he would show off a smooth arsecrack. He was barefoot in sandals, and the white t-shirt had cut-off arms and was severed above the naval.
Ivar found the bathroom and tried to arrange his blond hair even though he knew that the yellow haystack was unruly. He had borrowed his mother's hairspray more than once, and had been teased by the Elvis look-alikes with their Brylcreem and the Beatles guys with straight hair. Ivar tugged his trousers down a little, a bit too lower than was wise perhaps.
"I'll ask the Americans for their shavers," he thought and let two fingers follow the light trail from his pubic hair to his naval. He had been sorry to have fair pubic hair while all his friends were dark-haired down there, but now he felt sexy being nearly smooth.
The door to the bathroom was opened in a hurry and the two Americans dived inside. "I have to piss!" Ron shouted, pulling down his shorts.
"Me too." Rod did the same. Ivar rolled his eyes, closed the door, and went downstairs.
"When do you lock the door, sir?" Ivar asked the man still sitting by the desk. "I don't have the key."
"Don't worry, son. I don't lock the door until the last guest is inside." The man smiled.
"But if I.." Ivar was interrupted by the caring host. "If you want to party late, do so! You are young and in Paris. I'm here to look after you."
Ivar was a bit uncertain about the answer. He remembered his first hostel in Copenhagen, but the man sounded sincere.
"I need to buy some food, sir. You have a place you can recommend?" Ivar hadn't had a real meal all day.
"Two houses further down, huge green door. Tell Madame Claire that Monsieur Isac sent you! Just go ahead, son. It's a bit late but you will get a nice supper, I'm sure." Ivar felt that this was like an order, but he had no good alternative, so why not?
The room was small; about ten tables in different sizes. Ivar sat down by the dark window. A grey-haired smiling lady greeted him.
"I come from Monsieur Isac!" Ivar began. "I would like some supper, madame. May I have the menu, please?"
"No need for a menu, mon ami. We have a nice supper for you. Wine Đ red or white?" She looked very energetic.
"Red, please!" Ivar had studied French menus and hoped to be understood.
Minutes later a carafe of red wine and a bottle of water was brought to his table. Shortly after that some chicken pt appeared, and soon after that a plate of stewed beef, and finally apple tart with ice cream and then coffee. He even ordered some dessert-wine, and felt both filled and drunk when he found his wallet and asked for the bill.
"No bill, mon garon. Will you stay long with Monsieur Isac?" Madame Claire wiped some sweat from her forehead. The room was filled with customers.
"One or two weeks I hope, madame." Ivar had no fixed plans.
"Please come back tomorrow if you liked the food. You may pay at the end of the week. Talk to Monsieur Isac. He's a good friend." She used her fragile hand to pull some of Ivar's messy hair to one side. Then she smiled a motherly smile and headed for the next table.
Ivar needed the bathroom. He found the door beside the kitchen, no men/women sides - only one sink for men and a door to what he guessed was a toilet. He lowered his jeans and underwear down to his ankles, found the half-hard dick and closed his eyes. He was happy and aroused, and did not hear that another man had come into the small room behind him.
The man locked his arms around the boy, and put his head close to Ivar's ears. Strange, but Ivar was not afraid. He felt safe in Madame Claire's house.
"You thrilled the old lady," the man whispered. "Nothing strange in that. You are damn sexy, Ivar!"
Ivar had already recognised the man, the smell of cigar and a very special au de cologne, and now he had remembered his name too. The tall and strong man held him tight with one hand. With the other hand he spread the boy's arsecheeks and put a finger deep inside his boy-cunt. Ivar moaned, but instead of trying to escape, he opened up and pushed his hips backwards.
"I want to fuck you, Norwegian!" the man whispered with a hoarse voice close to Ivar's head.
"You want to fuck me here, sir?" Ivar commented with a question. He felt a stiff arrow against the butt, and the man lowered his hand and found Ivar's still dripping cock. A finger was still inside him, playing with him and using fucking movements.
"No room here, son. Meet me at Rue Sainte-Anne at midnight. Look for me at number eleven. Ivar now turned around and tried to dress. The two metre tall man filled the room. He recognised the man's smile from the first hostel this morning.
"Thank you for not belting me, sir. I felt a bit responsible for the lads' action today. I was nude in their presence!" Ivar didn't know why he did it, but he searched and found the man's stiff cock outside the military-styled jeans.
"Let me suck you, sir. Please sir." Ivar watched as the man opened the door to the small cubicle and took command. He placed Ivar on the toilet seat, opened his belt and pulled down his jeans. He was commando and a thick cock, close to 25 cm (10 inches) popped forward and met Ivar's open mouth. Ivar knew this situation. His boss at home loved to humiliate him with a mouth-fuck in the restaurant's toilet, calling him a whore, although he called him darling and baby when he had sent his load all over Ivar's face and mouth. The difference was the size of the cock. This huge man was a giant.
Ivar tried to recall the address. He was left alone in the toilet-room, trying to lick the man-milk he just had received from collecting fingers. The man had been huge, but not cruel. He had let Ivar take the amount he could manage, and did not force more.
"Midnight!" the man said with a grin when he left.
"Rue Saint Anne," Ivar said to himself. "Number eleven." He remembered the street from the Spartacus guide he had left in his hostel room. "Not so far from here," he said to himself, and looked at his watch - nine o'clock. He adjusted his hair in front of the small mirror. "Three hours for a bit of night sightseeing."
The wet spot was not very visible in front of his corduroy trousers. He bowed to Madame Claire when he left through the green door.
Montmartre smelled of roasted chestnuts, but he was too stuffed after the huge supper to think of buying some. Coming up from the metro station was like jumping into a huge sports-event - lights, music, shouting and people; people all around.
"Moulin Rouge," he read. A long queue waited to enter the famous show theatre inside the coloured windmill. On the hill above he got glimpses of the pink cream cake-like church of Sacr Coeur. The floodlit church competed in a way with all the street lights and advertisements, but made the Montmartre scenery complete.
"I must go back tomorrow," Ivar thought. Tonight though, he looked for something else. His mates from home, who had visited Paris, all talked about one thing: `Strip tease', every young man's dream Đ if he could show he was old enough.
Ivar had searched his Spartacus guide for strip shows but hadn't found anything, just information about the best places to cruise'. He had already been offered service when he left the Metro, but now he headed east. Soon he found a neon-lit sign Đ Strip tease Đ best girls around!'
The lad hesitated. He looked at the photos outside Đ only girls. He had been told that couples were on stage here, doing hot shows. He looked for the males. Ivar had danced with girls since he was thirteen; from the day he ran away from the church gospel choir to the dance-hall. He knew a girl's body dressed up, but he had never been interested in seeing one naked. He had never had a hard-on when dancing with a girl, but when he watched his mates presenting a stiff dick in a tight dance, he had trouble with his own erection more than once.
"I can't meet my brother without having a strip to tell him about," he said to himself, and went up to the door guarded by a bull of a man in a circus-like uniform. The man met Ivar's eyes, smiled and opened the door. He probably recognised a newcomer.
The room was much smaller than Ivar had expected, a sort of theatre filled with men smoking and drinking side by side. They sat in front of the stage where a not very attractive girl was dancing, handing her clothes to a very anonymous man dressed in white. Ivar saw a table beside the stage, and sat down on a free chair. Seconds later a waiter came to take his orders. `Worldly' he ordered a vodka-coke, the only strong drink he liked. The drink arrived soon afterwards and the bill too. Ivar swallowed; he could have bought a bottle outside for that price. He was happy to have enough cash to pay for the drink. "I will have to make do with one drink," he thought.
A not very young girl sat down on a chair beside him and placed a hand on his knee. "Please buy me a drink, young Adonis," she said, while her hand played with his upper leg. If this action had been done by a man, Ivar would have loved it, but now his body froze. He was an amateur with girls, but he wasn't easy to upset.
"I'm here just to watch the show and have a drink, Miss!" He used his best schoolboy-French, and made an irritated movement with the leg. The girl took the signal, but did not move away.
Ivar focused on the stage where the lady-stripper was down to a featherlike string. Her naked low-hanging breasts were decorated with feathers as well. The man had stripped off his jacket and his shirt and showed a hairy upper body. Neither of them gave Ivar the Viking any vibrations.
Suddenly the stage-light was closed down and the couple disappeared behind a curtain.
"Next show in ten minutes. Please buy your drinks!" A metallic voice was heard in the room and Ivar saw the waitress on her way. He lifted his glass, and emptied it. Then he turned, gave the girl a light smile, and went towards the door. The huge guard opened the door for him, like he had been watching the whole scene inside.
"Not your style, young man?" The man smiled.
"I'm not into old women!" Ivar commented with a direct voice.
"And not younger either perhaps?" The guy was still smiling, while Ivar blushed in the warm summer-night. The man found a card in his pocket. It looked like a sort of business-card.
"This place will fit you, I'm sure! I'm sorry I stopped stripping there myself." The man opened the door for three young tourists on their way inside. He turned to Ivar and gave him a grin and a thumbs up.
Underneath a streetlight Ivar read the address. "Same street, but another number. Close to the Opera." He hurried down the street towards the metro station Pigalle'. He remembered where to change line, Madelaine', like his partner when he won a local twist and rock' competition Đ the girl who left him because he didn't want to screw her. Then Metro Opera'; Ivar had managed in the dark night. He found the street too Đ Rue Sainte-Anne.
"Strange!" he thought. "It looks like a business street, banks and offices!" But when he looked closer there were bars and restaurants behind the curtains. The street was calm but with many young men like himself, walking and standing, smoking and waiting. From time to time cars were passing slowly, stopping, lonely men watching. Ivar had no problems understanding the business.
Ivar smiled. "I have a date. Maybe he will pay me! But will they let me inside?" He remembered that his passport was in the hostel and he knew he looked young for his age. He passed number seven and heard noise and music from inside. He looked at his watch; just eleven. Still one hour to midnight, still one hour until he was to meet the guy that belted the young students that morning. He wanted to see the place where the Montmartre athlete had stripped. He found the card and showed it to two young lads on the pavement further up the street. They pointed out a gate, and made hand sign for Ivar where to go.
There was a guard by this entrance too. He asked Ivar about his age. "Sorry I have left my passport in the hotel, sir," he said. "I have a recommendation though." He showed the man the business card and the door was opened without more questions.
The contrast to the strip-show he came from was huge. The room was filled with men, chatting and drinking. The music was loud and youngsters were dancing in front of a jukebox, a couple of them shirtless. Behind the bar were two dark-haired, well-tanned men, dressed in tight leather shorts and money-belts. Ivar was very satisfied; this was a place for him. He crossed the floor up to the bar. One or two whistled; one touched his butt. He was seen, and he loved it.
"I'm gay, for sure I'm gay!" he thought. He had never used that word before. "I'm gay, I'm always been. And I love it! Damn, and I'm not alone!"
"What did you say, darling?" A barkeeper was right in front of him.
Ivar woke up. "What can you offer me, beauty?" Ivar didn't know what he said.
"Everything!" The young barman cupped his bulge and grinned.
"Let me start with a beer, eh?" Ivar felt both stupid and aroused. He had found the bar, and the Viking started to flirt with the barman before he even was served. And this was his first night in Paris.
Ivar had been dancing with the other youngsters for half an hour now. `Rivers of Babylon' had filled the smoke-filled room. He had stripped off his top like the other young men, but kept his trousers on this time. He remembered the show from Copenhagen, and he had no Caspar here. When one bottle was empty, he was given another one, but he was careful. He wanted to be in control.
The barkeeper collected a mic and the juke box was shut down. "Let me introduce our guest tonight!" he said. "A big hand for Pierre, a free night from l'Opera and he is here to entertain us." A spotlight pointed out a small stage. A young man was sitting in a chair, with a robe, pretending to prepare for the entrance. Ivar swallowed; he had to correct his bulge. A man put arms around him. "I wish you were in that chair, baby," the man behind Ivar whispered.
Ivar was super-excited. He did not take notice of the man who hugged him from behind, he just curled up against him. He followed every movement from the young dancer who threw away his robe and went on dancing in a skin-tight black dress. Boney M's Daddy Cool', filled the room when Pierre, in one movement, stripped off his top and displayed his naked brown body. "I'm crazy like a fool," Boney M continued. In a sexy way the dancer managed to strip his trousers off just when the music changed to Fever'.
The dancer played with himself on stage. He pinched his nipples, and he put his hands inside the tiny thong that now was his only piece of clothing. "Fever when you hold me tight!" the dancer sang, and Ivar sang too. He knew the lyrics and was a good singer. And when Pierre moaned, Ivar moaned too. And when the dancer peeled off the thong and just cupped it in front of a hard cock, Ivar took the hand from the man behind and placed it on his own crotch. When the dancer at the end threw away the thong and was completely naked, "Fever all through the night...,' Ivar carried on and placed the man's hand inside his tight trousers. Ivar was about to cum. For the first time in his life he was close to cumming in public.
Pierre left the small stage and danced naked through the audience, up to the bar, where the two men lifted him onto the bar-top. His cock was hard, not a very big cock, but a cock suited to his light body. He was completely shaved and a cock-ring made his cock and balls darker coloured than the rest of his body. The stripper lay down on the bar-top and played with his body. Ivar moaned. He saw that some of the younger men nearby went close to the sweating body and touched him. Ivar wished he could have done the same, but the man behind him held him tight and had cupped his cock inside his trousers.
"Fever all through the night," Boney M was about to end. Pierre lifted his hips from the bar and showed his dripping cock on top of his bridged body. He wanked and moaned, and played with his nipples. The man behind Ivar used his fingers to squeeze his nipples. Pierre moaned as if he was cumming when the dance ended, but Ivar the one that came. He spunked off in the grown up man's huge hand inside the trousers, again and again. He shut his eyes and pushed his head back, and screamed a silent scream when the heavy orgasm made his body tremble. The man behind him kissed the back of his head, and nearly lifted him from the dance-floor with his one free arm.
Coming down to earth, after a visit to the bathroom to clean up, Ivar smiled a bit shyly at the huge man. "How did you find me, sir? I was to meet you at number eleven."
"When you weren't there, I thought you might be here, and I knew young Pierre would perform tonight! You liked him?" The man from the restaurant toilet grinned.
Ivar blushed. He felt like a kid that had pissed in his trousers. "Your guess, sir?"
"In your head you stripped tonight, didn't you?" Again the man hugged Ivar.
"Did he cum at the bar? Did heÉ spunk offÉin public?" Ivar asked.
"No, he didn't. He went for his robe but he will be back soon to see his audience." The man sniffed the hand which had taken care of Ivar's boy-milk.
"You still want to fuck me, sir?" Ivar asked a bit ashamed. He never thought he should ask a foreign man such a question.
"My God, yeah. I will, I'll fuck you to heaven once more, kid, but now we both need something to drink. If you are old enough, baby?" He grinned and went like a giant up to the bar with Ivar tight beside him. In black trousers and black tight singlet he looked like a porn-star.
"You must be here on Friday night!" The solitary barman addressed Ivar. "It's the strippers night for our young visitors!"
To be continued