American-Italian playboy - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 1

My Nonna still called us i ragazzi like we were little kids running around her kitchen in Brooklyn, even though Luca was twenty-two and I had just turned eighteen. We weren’t blood. Our parents had been close since the old neighborhood days—same church, same Italian social club, same Sunday dinners that stretched until dark. When Luca got accepted into the police academy across the city and needed a place closer than his parents’ place in Staten Island, my mom offered the extra room without thinking twice. 

“He’s practically family already,” she said. “Let him stay.”

So he moved in the summer before academy started. Six-two, athletic from all the prep training, faded cut sharp on the sides, that big Roman nose that somehow made his face better, a couple of black-and-gray tattoos climbing his right arm, references to Scarface and The Godfather. Green eyes that looked almost see-through in sunlight. He could have been a Dolce & Gabbana model if he’d given a single shit. He thought modeling was “for the gays.” Said it to my face once, laughing, not knowing I was one of them, or knowing and just provoking.

I bleached my hair blond the same month he moved in. Told everyone it was for fashion school. Truth was I wanted to look different from him. A contrabalance. Wanted something that was only mine.

Luca brought girls home whenever my parents went to the Jersey house for the weekend. Always the same routine. Door slammed. Low voices. The wet slap of skin. A girl moaning his name like it was the only word she remembered. Then silence, the shower running, and the soft sound of a condom hitting the little trash can under his desk.

I started noticing everything about him long before the condoms.

I’d known Luca since we were kids—same summers at the club pool, summer together in Sicily, same scoldings from Nonna for stealing meatballs—but living under the same roof made it different. He was all grown up. 

He walked around the apartment in just boxers after workouts, tattoos flexing when he reached for a glass of water. He left his gym bag in the hallway. Sometimes the boxers he’d slept in ended up on the bathroom floor. I started picking them up when no one was looking. I’d lock my door, press the worn cotton to my face, and breathe in the thick, musky smell of him—sweat, skin, piss, balls, the faint leftover trace of whatever girl he’d had the night before. I’d get hard instantly. Sometimes I’d jerk off with the fabric over my nose, eyes closed, pretending the smell was the only thing left of him.

That was the first addiction.

The condoms came later.

March. Parents gone for the weekend. Luca had a girl over—some dark-haired chick from an Italian restaurant we visited regularly. I stayed in my room with headphones on, pretending to sketch silhouettes, while he fucked her on the other side of the wall. I listened to the bedframe hitting the drywall, the low filthy encouragement he gave her, the short punched-out groan when he finished. 

After she left and the shower started, I waited five full minutes, then walked into his room.

The air still smelled like her sweet perfume and his sweat. The little black trash can under the desk held one used condom, tied off, heavy. I don’t know what made me pick it up. The same curiosity that made me smell his boxers, only worse. I held it over my palm, felt the warm weight of him inside the latex, and before I could talk myself out of it I untied the knot and let the thick white load drip onto my tongue.

It tasted like salt and something bitter that was purely Luca.

I swallowed, heart slamming so hard I felt it in my throat, and put the empty rubber back like nothing had happened.

That was the beginning.

By April I had a system. When my parents were away Friday to Sunday. Luca would text some girl from the gym or a bar. I’d stay in my room with the door cracked, sketchbook open for cover, and listen. Every wet sound. Every time he told a girl to take it deeper. Every rough groan when he came. After she left and the shower ran, I’d slip into his room, take the condom from the trash, and carry it back to mine like contraband, like it was my drug.

I never swallowed it right away.

I liked to sit on my bed, hold the condom up to the light from my desk lamp, and watch his cum slide around inside the latex. Analyzing the consistency. The way it moved. The thick, pearly weight of it. Then I’d open it carefully and pour it across my tongue, slow, letting the taste coat every part of my mouth before I swallowed. Sometimes I imagined it was still inside one of the girls—some tight, wet pussy he’d just finished using—and that I was on my knees between her legs afterward, licking her wet shaved pink pussy clean of everything he’d left behind. I’m gay. I’ve never wanted a woman in my life. But the idea of tasting Luca secondhand, of getting his load out of a used hole with my tongue, made me harder than anything on Grindr ever had. I’d jerk off with his cum still on my tongue, coming into my own fist while I pictured it dripping out of some girl shaved pussy and onto my chin. My tongue inside her cunt retrieving what’s mine, Luca’s cum.

I did it for months.

Every weekend they were gone. Sometimes twice if he brought two different girls. I learned the exact weight of a full condom. I learned that when he was really worked up—when the girl had been loud and he’d lasted longer—it came out thicker, almost ropey. I learned the smell of him mixed with whatever cheap body spray the girl had worn. I started stealing his worn boxers more often too, keeping one hidden under my pillow for nights when there was no condom to take. I’d fall asleep with the smell of his crotch against my face and wake up hard, already thinking about the next time my parents would leave.

I never got caught. Luca locked his door while the girls were there, but he never thought to hide the trash after. Why would he? I was the son of the family friend’s, the quiet fashion boy who bleached his hair and talked about construction and drape. Not the kind of guy who’d dig through used rubbers for a taste of his roommate’s cum, like a desperate homeless. Not the kind of guy who’d press his face into another man’s dirty boxers and breathe like he was drowning in it.

Until the Saturday in July.

Parents were at the shore until Monday. Luca had a girl over by three in the afternoon—short, loud, too much highlighter, the type who laughed at everything he said. I stayed in my room with the door cracked and listened the way I always did. He fucked her hard and fast, the way he did when he had somewhere to be later. She came twice, loud both times. He came once, that same short, punched-out sound, and I heard the snap of the condom coming off. Shower. Hair dryer. Her voice saying she’d text him. Front door closing.

I waited four full minutes, counting them under my breath, then walked into his room.

The condom was right where it always was—tied, heavy, sitting on top of a crumpled tissue in the little black can. Still warm from him. I took it, closed his door quietly, and went back to mine. My hands were already shaking with the usual mix of shame and hunger. I sat on the edge of the bed, untied the knot with careful fingers, and lifted the open condom to my mouth. The first heavy thick drop hit my tongue. I tilted it higher, letting the rest of his load slide out in a slow, heavy stream, filling my mouth the way I’d done a dozen times before. I held it there, savoring the bitter-salt taste of him, eyes half-closed, already hard in my sweats.

I was still playing with the last of it—tilting the condom to get every drop, tongue working the inside of the latex—when my bedroom door opened.

Luca stood there in a black button-down, sleeves rolled up over the tattoos, faded hair still damp from the shower, green eyes wide. He was holding a silver bracelet in one hand, the clasp open.

“Yo, Davi, bro. help me with this thing, I can’t…”

He stopped.

The condom was still in my fingers. A thick string of his salty cum connected the latex to my lower lip. My mouth was full of him. I froze, throat working on the last of it, eyes locked on Luca’s face as the realization landed on him in real time. I swallowed, hard, the taste of him sliding down.

Luca’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

The bracelet dangled from his fingers, forgotten.

He just stared at his childhood friend, his roommate, the kid he’d known since they were both small enough to steal meatballs from Nonna’s kitchen, sitting on the bed with a used condom in one hand and the taste of his own cum still fresh on his tongue.

For the first time since I’d known him, Luca—the future cop, the stud, the straight Italian-American poster boy who thought modeling was for the gays—looked completely, utterly speechless.