4
A woman’s body can be drawn or framed, but it always retains its own standards of individual beauty. The beauty Mauro sought to explore had first crossed his path just after his twelfth birthday when his mother had bought him his first camera, a Kodak Instamatic. The Kodak had quickly become his favourite toy, a toy which had gradually become a hobby and later a genuine vocation. He was self-taught, learning all he could through his own means, and was proud of the fact. He worked hard and was always on the move, as travel was at the root of his photographic education. He’d met Trevor in Toronto and managed to convince him to follow him back to Italy to set up a photographic and art studio where they could both confront the beauty of women against the beauty of Rome’s ancient ruins.
But the project never saw the light of day.
Caught between the thousand or so problems of his divorce and a dangerous attraction to alcohol, the Canadian man had just proved unable to get his act together. Mauro had never forgiven him. He’d abandoned him there in Italy, surrounded by his paranoia, and had flown to London, a city he thought would be ideal to bring his own dreams to life
And then the whole world had collapsed around him, as fate had intervened, and he was now in a mess, with the devil on his tail and desperately in need of money.
Mauro had initially thought of packing up and leaving. It was a strong temptation to go home, see his parents again.
He instinctively knew this was a time for reflection. What he basically needed was some sort of order in his life, to sort things out. Maybe some place where he could eat whenever he wished, sleep eight hours a night without others making a fuss, without squatters in all corners.
He wanted to stay warm beneath the old flannel bed cover. He wanted to smell espresso coffee and see a breakfast table all made up and ready.
Mauro also desired many other things. Harmony. Equilibrium. And a form of serenity he had sought for a long time now and could somehow not seize. And assuredly not here in the bleakness of Holloway. Nor between these four old walls.
Returning home was an alluring thought, but going back as a loser was another kettle of fish altogether. For Mauro it would mean once again having to face the stern gaze of his father, the envious disapproval, the criticism.
He knew that his old man expected this. He knew the bastard would laugh out aloud about his travails and dreams.
Mauro’s father was a simple man. He wasn’t an artist, had never worked in Switzerland, nor was he a sculptor.
Mauro had once invented those lies in order to be noticed, to carve himself an aura of some sort. But Mauro’s father understood nothing about art.
He was a butcher. He spent his whole days between dead cows and pigs, and was satisfied with his lot, because it was real work, honest and reliable. A job his son had total contempt for.
Many years before, the old man had once brought Mauro to the back of the shop in a vain attempt to teach him about his trade. Under Mauro’s firm gaze, he had begun skilfully cleaning up a lamb for the slaughter, even though the animal was struggling wildly.
“It’s not enough to wear a set of overalls. You must also cover your face and your neck in case they bite you, which would be very painful,” he explained.
Mauro nodded and pretended to understand. But he just couldn’t fathom the reason for such dedication, and watched the whole scene with disgust, until the time came for him to try.
“Be brave, there’s nothing to afraid about. Hunger is frightening. But once you’ve learned a trade you’ll never be hungry again.”
His father was right. Maybe he should have listened to him better. And now, he had drifted off that straight and narrow road and was sorry for himself like a sobbing woman. And without even being aware of it, he was fleeing from one part of the world to another. Always further from home. Always further from a way of life he could neither understand or love.
London, Manchester, Glasgow: Mauro was acquainted with a lot of people and was ready to take on any job to widen the distance between the life he had chosen and the one his father would have wanted for him. So when a little-known stroke magazine asked him to work in the hardcore field, Mauro set his pride aside and accepted.
Porno shoot.
Group sex full of thrusting and violence.
Porno shoot.
Four whores being mounted by a black stud.
“It’s not a problem,” Mauro had said.
The next day as he reported for the job, his liver hurt.
The premises had been furnished in superficial luxury. The furniture and varied knick knacks were in ersatz hi-tech style long overtaken by the whims of fashion.
Mauro had slowly set out all his equipment, although he was aware that the others were impatient to get on with things. It was almost as if all they wanted was to have it all done with quickly so they could all go home.
Mauro no longer had a place of his own and was in no hurry. The four heavily made-up young women were already sprawled across the bed. Mauro ordered them to undress and spread their legs across the bed cover for some test shots. In reality he had no genuine need for these, but it was the first time he had been involved in a job like this and he needed more time to get the hang of things.
To find the right light? No. Maybe to get used to their shaven and open cunts, and be able to take these damn photos without being physically affected himself.
Mauro was nervous. Both nervous and also excited by what he could see. His erection was pressing against the tight zip of his leather trousers, as he suggested the black man strip, hoping that the sight of a naked man would temper his spirits.
Off came the shirt and tie, and then trousers and underpants. Yes, he could keep his gold chains on. A black naked stallion, with gold chains, quite a sight! Above all, his cock was huge. And the black guy’s penis was thick and hard, as if an instant confirmation of the urban legend about black men’s sexual superiority. This, together with the minimalist environment of the set and the pale skin of his future preys on the bed, brought the whole scene to life, in Mauro’s mind.
And the fucking was like a cocktail of movement and choreography. So much more different and arousing than the spineless groping and vulgarity he had first seen in the second-rate Italian porn films of his youth, featuring Moana, Luana and company.
The black man had no need to pretend; he knew he was the one in charge. And the way he held open the women’s gaping cunts just as he was about to impale them with his monstrous cock was all the evidence needed. He didn’t penetrate them, he broke them open, and as ever with a wide smile and gleaming white teeth.
Mauro’s hands were sweaty. Hypnotized by the spectacle he had stopped taking photographs and, right now, just watched the action, and the black guy’s radiant smile, the game of submission and power that was unfolding in front of his eyes. And the black man looked back at him. With a sneer across his face, he muttered something to
