rough rides by Habu

Author:Habu [Habu]
Language: por
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Malta Intervention

It was Giorgio’s own fault. Really. Sandy and I were quite happy to do our part. But if Giorgio hadn’t been such a snotty little bitch, we would have never done him that way.

For three glorious years Sandy and I had thought we’d found paradise on the Mediterranean island of Malta. We’d managed to live well on his stipend from the British Royal Navy and were quite pleased with our pleasant little art gallery on the St. Julian’s waterfront. And we were more than pleased with our association with Rocco and Sebastien, both professionally and as partners in bridge, travels, and just sitting in the cafés on the promenades of whatever quaint Maltese seaside town or village we were exploring on any given day and making catty remarks about the passing tourists. Sandy and Rocco were of an “age” that neither wanted to discuss any more and Sebastien and I were much younger but fully satisfied by our respective “daddies.” We were still somewhat different, however, because Sebastien enjoyed serving under his master whereas Sandy preferred me riding his waves. The differences all made for conviviality and some very torrid and amusing conversation.

From the beginning Sandy told me that we were destined to last longer than Rocco and Sebastien and to lose them as friends and coconspirators—and he was right. But he wasn’t right for the reasons he supposed. He continually told me that when the top was older, the fire would burn out quicker; that as long as I was young and vigorous, however, we could fuck until Sandy was senile and incontinent. But Rocco and Sebastien had their break a long time before reaching that stage. Both Sandy and I felt the loss greatly when our little foursome broke up. And the split came on artistic differences, of all things, rather than any diminishing of their sex drive or ability to perform.

Rocco was the fine artist. We met him when we started to fill our gallery with his charcoal pastels. And we had started carrying his art before we realized that he lived in the old stone villa high on the hill on the road from St. Julian’s to the capital city, Valletta. Sandy and I had often remarked on how intriguing was the villa’s blood-red double-entry door and garage door set in a solid wall of ancient gray stone broken only by a curly-rodded black iron balcony over the door guarding a single French window in the second story.

The front of the house was right up against a curve in the road, and once you cleared that wall on your way back to the sea, the east coast of Malt opened up in a breathtaking view. Until we met Rocco we never could discern how good the view was from the side of the old house that faced the sea. And after we met him we fully understood what inspired his art as he worked in the room behind that French door to the street, but with broad windows open to the view of St.

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