The vacation rental Glass House on the banks of and seemingly floating over Lake Como, Italy, is, to the eye, a two-story cube totally of glass—walls, floors, ceilings—suggesting daring, transparency, and bold openness. But hidden at its core is a chamber of secrecy and total testing that draws men to it to use and be used by other men roughly. This book, The Glass House, is a six-story anthology of the tales of the various men who come to the house for sport and release.
“Ah, The Glass House,” Gino said. “It’s a landmark here. We all know it. I would love to see inside it. I’d do anything to be able to see inside it.”
“You would?” I asked, ecstatic that, on his own, he went directly to where I was headed. I took a small wad of euros out of my pocket and placed it on the café table. “Anything?”
He gave the euros a long look.
“Those are not for the waiter. I will pay him separately,” I said.
Gino picked the euros up and buried them in his pocket.
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