The Story of X: An Erotic Tale by A. J. Molloy Read Free Book Online Page B

over his shoulder, bleached pale
     blue in the seafront sun.
    “Not having to worry about money is like not having to worry about the weather,” he
     shrugs. “It is an incalculable advantage; I do know I am very lucky. But I had to
     work to make a real fortune. And being rich brings its own difficulties.”
    “Such as? Too many private jets? An annoying choice of beautiful women wanting to
     sleep with you?”
    “No.” His sparkling eyes meet mine. “It makes life more . . . ah . . . complicated . Say you buy a Tuscan villa. Then you have to pay someone to look after the villa—because
     you aren’t there most of the time. Then you have to pay someone to protect the man
     who is looking after the villa. Then you have to hire someone to check the man who
     protects the man who . . . well, it becomes a crashing bore.” He pauses. And chuckles,
     that languid, infective chuckle. “I’m not looking for sympathy.”
    “You’re not getting it.”
    Our food has arrived. It looks a little odd, and also beautiful: chunks of soft white
     fish laced with pink “lobster foam,” like a kind of translucent froth of pale rose
     caviar; and all of it lying on the green island of risotto—rice tinged with basil.
    And then I taste it.
    “Oh my God.”
    “You like it?”
    “It’s . . .” I struggle for the words. “It is delicious. Like nothing I have ever
     eaten.”
    “Good!”
    His smile is wide and dazzling. I can see the dark vee of his bare chest under his
     open-neck shirt. Dark hairs, a little gilded by sun maybe. His elegant hands reach
     for a wine bottle that lies tilted in a silver bucket.
    “And now the Gewürztraminer. Lightly chilled, from Tremen, in the Etsch valley. That
     is where Gewürztraminer was invented . It matches the slight spiciness of the basil and the angler fish.”
    My only previous experiences of Gewürztraminer have been cheap German wine, or cheaper
     Californian remakes. I sip, somewhat reluctantly, but Marc is right. Of course; I
     bet Marc is always right. The wine is delicious. It lacks that icky sweetness I expected; it is rich
     yet dry, with a ghost of floral perfume. Just perfect, dammit.
    We drink and eat, and the conversation warms, and then it positively flows : I tell Marc funny stories from my days as a student, stories about me and Jessica.
     They are not that funny, but Marc laughs, and his laughter seems real, and as the lunch proceeds my
     mind is again suffused with a sense of well-being. The terror of the alleyway seems
     like it happened to a different person, in a different time.
    The wine is crisp and cool and lovely, and the afternoon stretches sunnily ahead,
     and I can hear people chattering happily away in Italian all around me, and it is
     like the best soundtrack ever. I am glad I do not understand the people here, because
     their talk becomes blissfully meaningless, just a mellifluous burble of foreignness.
    At last Marc sits back. And he tilts his handsome head, looking at me with curiosity.
    “X. You still haven’t asked me about this morning. Are you no longer interested?”
    He’s right. I haven’t asked. Why is this?
    It is partly because I don’t want to ruin the moment, perhaps. But it is also because
     my mind is helplessly clouded. And it is clouded by thoughts—not of the morning’s
     events—but of sex. Right now, right this minute, I want to make love with Marc. I
     want to feel his hands on my skin; his lips on my lips; his hands caressing me, endlessly.
     I imagine us on a beach, alone and together. The sun above me, Marc above me . . .
     It feels wholly inappropriate, after what I have just experienced, in the alley; yet
     it feels wholly natural, too. I want life, and love, even more.
    Moreover, I can see by the way Marc looks at me that maybe he wants me as well . A moment ago I stood and shifted to another chair to keep out of the beating sun,
     and I saw him staring at my legs, at my bare feet. With pure and devouring