Gay Erotica
"A Night at the Opera," a sex story by V.C.
It was a cold, winter night in December when I was made, no, forced to go see an opera, Le Mariage de Figaro, with my pal Benny in Carnegie Hall. He was going to go with another friend of his, but that plan failed due to a family emergency. So he asked me to come along. I told him bluntly, “I’m not really an opera guy,” but he insisted that I should go to “broaden my musical horizons.” Then he harped on about his friend and ex-lover, Giovanni Rossini, who was to play the leading role of Figaro. Constantly bragging about how gorgeous his voice is, how versatile his acting is, and how romantic his spirit is, and how physically stunning he is, as if he were a mythical creature of an era long gone but still thriving and surviving on the stage of the opera house. I gave in, begrudgingly. Whatever it took to make the man happy, for him to get a glimpse of his precious Giovanni once more, I consented to his invitation.
We dressed up for the occasion. Black suit and tie. Suede black shoes. Slicked back hair. I felt so out of place in this setting and this get-up, surrounded by a bunch of snooty-faced old people who smelled of cigar smoke and caviar, and stuck up rich kids sipping their champagne and martinis to their pompous conversations about opera. We waited in the lobby for only thirty minutes, but it felt like hours. I couldn’t wait to get inside and sit down, so I could finally relax and perhaps sleep on Benny’s shoulder if I got bored. I wanted to leave, but I had to stay for Benny.
“Relax, man. It’s just opera. You will love it, I promise you.”
“I don’t know...I just feel out of place here, that’s all. I’m used to dressing up in jeans and a t-shirt when going to musical events, not dressing up as if I’m going to a wedding reception or a funeral.”
“This isn’t just a musical event, Rick, it’s an experience.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Plus you will finally get to meet Giovanni after the show,” he squealed. “You will adore him.”
“Is that his real name or his opera stage name?”
“It’s his real name. He’s from Rome, born and raised.”
“You sound like a love-struck school boy. Are you two getting back together?”
“I wish. We are just really close friends.”
“Close friends eh? Friends with benefits is more like it,” I joked.
“Sometimes...” he blushed. “Well, not so much anymore, nowadays. I’m not going to get into it now, but basically we both know that it just isn’t going to work out.”
“Alright,” I smiled. “Well, I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
We were finally led inside of the theatre. The auditorium was large and spacious, brightly lit with grandiose chandeliers. I felt as if we were walking into a king’s palace. Quite a change from the dodgy, cramped stadiums that I was used to. Instead of the sound of romping, drunken college kids, we were welcomed by the sound of classical instruments being finely tuned to perfection. I was surprised that we were seated in the front row; I didn’t dare ask how much it cost for Benny to get those seats.
“Here’s one of the benefits of having dated an opera singer,” he said. “Getting the best seats in the house.”
“Ah, nice,” I nodded, pretending that I was getting into it, out of politeness and respect.
I was anxious for it all to be over and for us to get out of here, but all of my negativity subsided as soon as Benny whispered into my ear, “There’s Giovanni.”
I was hypnotized at the sight of him. He was like a Greek god, flawless from head to toe, as if he had stepped out from an ancient Greek painting. He had a slim, graceful figure, like that of a ballerina or a matador. He was about my height, 5’8”, his skin, a toasted lily white. He was dressed like a French aristocrat, wearing flat and tiny white shoes, white stockings, tight fitted dark navy blue breeches, a frilly white shirt with gold buttons, and a matching slim blue coat with golden patterned European embellishments. His face was smooth and beautiful and highly feminine, so charming with the face powder and his lips lightly painted in rouge. His hair was dark brown and long, thick and luxurious, falling down his back in a pony tail. When he opened his mouth, I was both frightened and aroused at the same time, to hear such a loud, mature, operatic voice erupt from such a tiny man.
All this time I had always thought that opera singers were fat and old like Pavarotti, not slim, young, and sexy such as he. I had never seen anything like it. He took my breath away. Every movement of his body made my heart skip a bit. Even though I didn’t understand French, I was moved, his voice was poetry; it was more beautiful than music itself. I didn’t so much care for the story or for the other actors who were performing on the stage; my eyes were only on Giovanni. He was exquisite and immaculate in his art and in his soul. His voice was epic; oh how he belted it out like the show stopping powerhouse that he was, his prominent Adam’s apple bouncing up and down, vibrating to the strength of his voice. It made me tremble. I could feel the odyssey. Throughout his performance, I wondered if he were thinking of Benny while up there on that stage, or if he had thoughts of the many gay boys (if there were any in the audience) who were turned on by him in his tight stockings and breeches. Pining for him like I was. I pondered if the audience knew that he was gay since he was playing a straight man in love with his lovely Suzanne. It made me break a sweat just thinking about it. It was at that moment that I realized that I was star-struck by the fabulous Giovanni Rossini, and was excited, no, honoured, to be meeting him in the flesh later that evening.
The audience gave him a standing ovation. When he gave his bow, I noticed him staring at Benny, and, to my surprise, at me, with a twinkle in his enchanting eyes. It had almost given me a boner, somehow, that one quick and subtle glance. I didn’t even know this man, other than that he dated Benny for six months and what was said of him in the playbill (speaks five languages fluently, Italian, English, French, Greek, and Spanish, has traveled all over the world playing characters from Don Giovanni to Polly from The Beggar’s Opera, and has recorded two albums in his home country, where he is well-known and famous). Yet, there I was practically about to ejaculate in my pants from his presence, his voice, his costume, everything, without having ever met him face to face. I felt like such a creeper, a dirty pervert, but I kept it together once we left the auditorium and waited for Giovanni in the lobby.
“Did you like it?” Benny asked.
“It was amazing!”
I think he was surprised that I really enjoyed it. Even I didn’t expect to like it.
“I knew you would. What did you think of Giovanni? Isn’t he an angel?”
“Yes, yes he is. What a voice, he’s...“
As I was about to praise his performance, Giovanni walked in, wearing tight-fitted dressy black pants and a cream color button-down shirt, the collar open to show off his smooth chest. He was more feminine in person than he was on the stage and in costume. His hair was flowing down along the small of his back; from afar, anybody could have easily mistaken him for a woman. It was no wonder that he had played the roles of female characters as well. He was gorgeously androgynous, his skin, so fair and beautiful, his hair, the most luscious I’ve ever seen on a man, his eyes, an almond hazel, his lips, plump and suckable, and, as mentioned, his body, like a Greek god. He was excited to see Benny; he called him his “petit bijou” and gave him a kiss on the cheek and a loving embrace. His voice wasn’t too deep or too high-pitched; it was in between, and his accent, very rich and thick, sounding like a blend of both Italian and French, was undeniably seductive. I gasped when Giovanni hugged me and said that Benny had told him a lot about me.
“Good things, I hope?” I smirked, as he embraced me as if we were old pals.
“Oh yes, many, many good things,” he winked.
I had no idea what he was implying by that wink. It made me shiver with anticipation, wondering exactly what he knew about me. He didn’t say anything more.
Later that night we went out to a bar nearby Carnegie Hall; it was Giovanni’s treat. Admittedly, before meeting him, I thought to myself that he would probably be a cocky, prissy little thing that would talk on and on about his talents and his love for the opera, but to my surprise he was completely humble, funny, charming, and absolutely entertaining. He had a way with words and a witty sense of humour. I could see why Benny adored him. How could anybody not? Plus, he was unbelievably sexy. From time to time, I couldn’t help but check out his cute little ass through his tight black pants, and that timid bulge that arose at the crotch as he coyly flirted with other men, it was so inviting. The erection that I had at the opera house had come back again, remembering the moments when Giovanni’s vocals had made my cock twitch, when every single movement of his body made me want to reach out and touch his stockings and his mighty crotch, and how even at our eyes meeting one another, even if he wasn’t trying to do it directly, I was tempted to shout out, “I want to fuck you!” I was in fiery lust with the man. I hoped I didn’t make it so apparent; I didn’t really want Benny to see it. Thankfully, he was too tipsy and infatuated with Giovanni to notice.
That night wasn’t to be the last of me seeing Giovanni in an opera in Carnegie Hall. Benny and I went to see him practically every other weekend. We saw him play Figaro at least three times (it never got old), and also Don José in Carmen, Macbeth, Hamlet, and Cyrano de Bergerac. Each performance brought me back to the first time I saw him on that stage. I’d remember each performance for days on end, like an eternal recurring dream. The memory of it was as warm and endearing as remembering the first time I had made love to a boy.
With each and every performance we went to, I got all the more aroused and hornier, stroking myself from the moment he appeared on the stage. Random, filthy thoughts ran through my mind, such as if he ever had a boner during a performance, if he ever had a quickie fuck backstage with another male opera singer, and if he and Benny ever made love as he was dressed in his opera costumes, role-playing in character. I wondered if he noticed me caressing my crotch, my dick like a kitten that would pounce if I stroked it any harder or faster. So many dirty thoughts ran through my mind while I was overwhelmed by his voice, his craft, his acting, and his skill. I admitted that I started to admire the art of opera as he performed it, as he breathed it and lived it with each operatic note. As soon as I got home, I would jack off to the ghost-like memory of Giovanni’s performances and the sound of his voice still echoing in my head. Not only once, but twice, maybe even more.
Youth by Matthew Stradling available at ObsessionArt.com
Naturally, I never exposed this habit to Benny and didn’t dare reveal it to Giovanni. The only thing I ever told them both is that I dreamed of all his performances every night after the show. That was innocent enough. Giovanni was flattered, in a humble, bashful kind of way, and the more I talked about his performances and tried to sound like I was a newly converted opera fanatic (which I honestly was), the closer he and I became. As friends, naturally, until at some point we did start to flirt when Benny wasn’t around. It made me slightly uncomfortable to be chummy with a friend’s ex-boyfriend, but Giovanni didn’t seem to mind it, hinting to me that he and Benny have both moved on. I took his word for it, but still had my doubts and worries.
Every night at the opera was the same, Benny and I, dressing up for the show in our tuxedos, watching Giovanni perform, always in the front row, and then meeting him afterwards in the lobby, having a boy’s night out in Times Square, going out to dinner and having a couple of drinks. But this particular night at the opera was entirely different. Benny couldn’t make it; he had to go to work. On the phone, I told him that I was upset that he couldn’t come, but once we hung up, I felt giddy. For once it would just be Giovanni and me. I was both nervous and excited at the same time, especially since we were to meet in his dressing room. He had given me a back stage pass to meet him two hours before the show.
When I arrived, I was lead directly to his dressing room, which had GIOVANNI painted on the door. I heard him practicing his vocals to a scene from Pagliacci, which was to be performed that night. That God-given voice of his was as thunderous as a storm; it had made me stop at my feet, shaking with emotion. I was almost afraid to knock at the door, to disturb his moment of melodic bliss. I knocked anyway, as loudly as I could so he could hear me. His operatic voice stopped to say in his normal, seductive Italian/French accent, “Come on in.”
When I stepped into his room, I was taken aback by him dressed as a clown. I’ve always been terrified of clowns, but what was before me was no ordinary clown, it was the magnificent Giovanni, wearing white face paint and black lipstick with black tear lines above and underneath his eyes, a loose fitted frilly white overcoat that had giant baseball sized black pom-poms from above his chest down to his crotch, white pants, white gloves, and white shoes. He was both adorable and sexy. His hair was long and flowing, as usual, like that of a prince. He was so stunning to look at that I almost could not speak.
“You’ve made it!” he grinned.
“I’m sorry I interrupted you, I hate that you stopped just for me. What were you singing?”
“It is not a problem, my dear,” he smiled. “I was singing Recitar, the most famous scene in Pagliacci.”
“Oh, you mean the part where he sings all by himself?”
I hoped I didn’t sound so stupid asking that question. I still did not know much about opera.
“Yes, precisely. It is sung at the end of Act I, before the intermission."
“Can you sing the entire thing for me a capella? I mean, if you don’t mind.”
“My goodness,” he blushed. “That would make me nervous.”
“Nervous,” I laughed. “You sing for over thousands of people a night and you are too shy to sing around a simple guy like me?”
“I know, it is so silly of me to say, but it does. It is more, well, intimate.”
“Well, I would be honoured if you could be intimate with me.”
That came out so wrong. I blushed. He saw it on my face; it made him giggle, he sounded like such a boy, it made me blush even more, to see his charming smile widen at just the sight of my embarrassment.
“Okay, I will do it just for you and only you. But first, sit down, relax. Benny couldn’t make it tonight because of work, eh?”
“Yeah, that’s too bad, considering that this will be your first night performing Pagliacci in Carnegie Hall.”
“You can tell him all about it tomorrow, yes?”
“I will tell him everything.”
I sat down in a chair beside him; he touched my knee with his gloved hand, and smiled with his dark and enticing black lips.
“I’m glad you could make it. I don’t mean to be sentimental right now, but this is an important night for me. I’ve always wanted to play this role since I was a kid.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing it, even though I will have no idea what you are saying.”
“You don’t have to, as long as you can feel it, you are in the moment. That is opera, my friend.”
He caressed my knee softly, in a kind of nonchalant way, but as innocent as it was, it made my legs tremble, and once again, my cock rose up in my boxers, but this time, I was face to face with the man I was in lust with, who was dressed as a clown, which made it all the more thrilling and exciting, but uncomfortable and awkward.
“I feel the moment every single time I see you on that stage...”
“I know. I can feel it too.”
He looked between my legs; I thought to myself, “Fuck, is it that obvious?”
“And it appears that something else feels the moment as well...” he smirked.
My cock was so stiff, jutting out like a pole against the crotch of my jeans.
“Fuck, I’m sorry Giovanni, this is so embarrassing, I…"
He pressed his lips against mine. His lips were thick with the black lipstick, but god how heavenly it was to have it smeared on my lips, rubbing off from him and sticking onto me. I didn’t want to touch his face to smear his clown makeup, so I caressed his hair, oh, so soft, softer than that of any man I had ever touched before, and it smelled so heavenly, the scent of coconut and peppermint. His tongue groped against mine in smooth, wet, and soft strokes, as if it were flirting with my mouth one moment and then making love to it the next with the stroking growing firmer, stronger, and more passionate with each timid moan and breath we took. The fabric of his Pagliacci overcoat brushed along my crotch; I touched the giant black pom pom, caressing it in the same way as I had always fondled myself during his performances. I felt his hand grab onto my ass, and then, his other hand gripped onto my crotch, turning it like a doorknob; he seemed quite eager to open and release my cock from its confines. I felt a pang of guilt and discomfort, for some reason the thought of Benny lingered in my head. So I stopped kissing, and tried to catch my breath.
“Wait...” I whispered.
“Am I going too fast?”
“No, it’s not that. I guess I just feel uncomfortable doing this with the ex-boyfriend of my best friend.”
“Oh, that. You do realize that Benny and I are no longer together, right?”
“Yes I know, but he still loves and adores you, he talks about you constantly, as if he’s still madly in love with you. I don’t want to disappoint him knowing that I’m stealing you from him.”
“You Americans are such silly romantics sometimes,” he sighed. “We are still in love with each other, yes, but I guess you can say that I’m not really the committed type.”
“Is that why you two broke up? Commitment issues?”
“I cheated on him.”
I wasn’t expecting him to answer my question so bluntly.
“Wow. Does he know that?”
“Of course he does, I may be a cheater but I always tell the truth.”
“So why is he still in love with you?”
“Because he is a silly little bitch,” he smirked. “And because he has some jealousy issues, always afraid that I will love another. I do love him, just not enough to commit to him. Understandable?”
“Perfectly understandable. I’m not the committed type either.”
“Ah, something we both share in common...”
I glanced at his crotch; it was bulging there, I could faintly see the fabric of his pants contour to the shaft of his firm, luscious cock that was pulsing with anticipation.
“So how about that a capella performance you promised me?”
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” he blushed.
“Don’t be bashful; perform in front of me as you do to those thousands of people every night.”
“As you wish,” he winked, and stepped in front of me with an air of grace and confidence. He took a sip of water and then stood still.
“As I mentioned before, Recitar starts at the final scene of Act I before intermission, where I, Canio, am standing alone on the stage to put on this costume that I’m wearing now, preparing to laugh.”
“Why is Canio preparing to laugh?”
“Because he knows that his lover Nedda is going to leave him for another man.”
Somewhat like art imitating life, I thought, except it was the other way around. Benny was Canio and Giovanni was Nedda. For just a moment, I thought of Benny being in the Pagliacci outfit, and Giovanni dressing up as a woman, as he had done many times, playing female opera characters. My cock grew harder and firmer than ever, not with the thought of Benny dressing up as a clown, but Giovanni dressing up as a woman, as Nedda. This time, I did my best to not make my boner look as obvious as before.
“So that’s why that song is so sad.” I responded.
“Yes, it is a sad story.” he nodded. “But a beautiful and moving story too, as many operas are. Ready for me to start?”
“I’m more than ready.”
He stood back from where I was sitting, and got into character. His clowny visage was serious, pensive, crazed with a pinch of madness and a whole lot of sadness. He then started singing the aria in a language that I could not understand, but I could feel the pain in his voice as well as in his face, his hand dramatically pressed against his heart as he reached those high notes, staring directly into my eyes as if I were his Nedda. Tears welled up in my eyes, hearing him sing without the orchestra and the music, his voice as raw as the emotions I felt inside of me. He looked up at the ceiling as he sang another high note; it was at that moment that I was drawn to the bulge of his crotch, it was more prominent, hard, and erect, with a wet patch at the center. I stepped down from my seat on my hands and knees as I crawled towards him, pressing my mouth against the shaft of his cock through his crisp white pants. He just started to laugh hauntingly as the tormented clown, and then let out a loud, surprised gasp as he looked down, to see my salivating mouth engulf the head of his penis through his pants.
“What are you doing?” his eyes widened.
“Don’t tell me that you’ve never had your dick sucked while performing.”
“No, I never have.” he shook his head, in disbelief.
“Stay in character, don’t stop. Keep on singing, I’m listening as well as feeling.”
He nodded slowly, carrying on in character. I could sense the nervousness and excitement in his voice as I pulled down his pants, letting his cock slip out from it as if it were a flower that just popped up in bloom, yearning for the sun to warm it up. I locked my eyes to his face, and saw that his lips were quivering as he kept on singing. His voice was as powerful and epic as ever, but slower, as if he were trying to sing to the rhythm of my cock sucking. I glided my tongue along the underbelly of his thick and long cock, feeling it throb tremendously. I wrapped my hands around it, thrusting them up and down slowly as my mouth latched onto the head, suctioning onto it like a vacuum, greedily suckling on its firm, warm, moist and salty goodness. He had to stop a couple of times, for the pleasure was far too much, but he remained in character, his voice, oh so marvelous, husky and sensuous. I bobbed my head up and down his cock in rhythm to his singing. I felt like the conductor and he was my symphony; it was my mission to lead him to the ecstasy of his operatic climax. My pace became faster and harder as my hands playfully caressed his gigantic balls. I then forced his entire length to slide down my throat, just as he sung his highest note of all, orgasmically belting “Ridi pagliaccio!” His hands gripped my head with force, pulling my hair he thrust and pounded into me aggressively, fucking my mouth like a beast, balls smacking rapidly against my chin. Not a single groan or grunt came from his mouth; instead, it was the final notes of the song rushing from his lips as his hot jizz spurt down my quaking throat. It erupted in a volcanic burst, as if it were his cock singing the climactic high note. His knees gradually fell to the floor as his operatic voice then began to subside in a kind of whisper, fading away. My mouth didn’t want to let his cock go, it was hooked onto him like a trout on bait, I kept on slurping more of his jizz that still came flowing down my throat, such creamy delight, he caressed my hair, his fingers running through them, gently, as he squeaked “Fuck.”
Even when I was through drinking every drop of his seed, the ecstasy was still quaking in my chest. My mouth reluctantly let go of his dick. He and I both lay there on the floor, panting and breathing heavily, overwhelmed with all that took place, for me, the rare delight of hearing him sing an opera song a capella, and for him, the rare opportunity to have his cock sucked as he sang in total character. We were in ultimate, orgasmic bliss.
“That was incredible,” he cooed. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
“Neither can I. Fuck.”
Unfortunately, our time together was running out. Giovanni had to reapply his black lipstick, adjust his costume, re-apply some of his white grease paint, and prepare himself for the show he had long dreamed of. In a matter of about half an hour, I went from his dressing room to the front row of the stage, to watch what was the most stunning and breathtaking performance I had seen of him thus far. It was erotically thrilling, knowing that I had just given him a blow job to the most famous aria of Pagliacci, and there he was singing it to thousands of people, probably thinking about what had occurred in his dressing room. He singing it brought me back to that moment; my cock was stirring in my pants, yearning to re-live the ecstasy.
He had a standing ovation that night, as usual. The reviews of his performance were glowing with praise and respect for Giovanni; he was their opera darling. The audience’s catharsis, as well as mine, was fulfilled. After his performance that night, in his dressing room, he presented to me another catharsis: his mouth, relieving my dick from all that pent up emotion of lust, and slurping it all up, every thick and creamy drop of it, while still in costume, while still basking in the glory of his Pagliacci debut.
I told Benny everything about that night, except for my and Giovanni’s private rendezvous. I wanted to keep it between us.
I knew it wasn’t going to be the first or the last time that we would carry out our naughty sexcapades in the privacy of his dressing room. For him and me, it would just be another typical night at the opera, about as frequent and mandatory as him exercising his operatic pipes before the curtain would rise. From here on out, our cocks, just like his high notes, would rise with it.
Originally published February 2011.