Studs: Gay Erotic Fiction (21 page)

I never found out what happened to Baron Trash.

 

Shane and I taxied back to the hotel. Other than being uncomfortable (I still had my crotch-cage on) and feeling
used
, I felt a sudden need to fight—which I was known to do rarely. Once we arrived at the hotel, we ascended many staircases and I demanded to be set free. Shane, shed of his alter ego, was a bit less severe, yet he seemed uninterested in me.

“Arms up,” he said.

I lifted my hands to mouth level. Shane unlocked the cuffs and removed them. He then had me sit, in order to remove the cock-cage. My despair surfaced as rage. I wanted to scream for something but he muted my grief with his firm lips planted on mine. He then stepped back, lifted the cuffs to me and said, “I am now
thine.
”

I cuffed him over his head, laid him on his belly and savored the reward of all my labor—his hairy ass. I returned his punishment through the hardness and hunger of my profound, almost spiritual, need. All the rage of my ancestors surfaced to feed my desire and the occupation of his ass—ghosts in my head shouted for freedom and drove me forward. My primordial demons feasted in the carnal celebration—they danced through fire—as I scaled the rungs of overload and came
—¡puñeta!—
with his rock-hard, mural-rich biceps in my hands, my nose pressed into the sweaty patch of bristle by his ears. I rolled off of him. My mouth split open as if I’d just died and a tide of sanity rushed over me.

When it passed, Shane asked me, “So what’d you think?”

“That I have the coolest fucking boyfriend in the universe.”

Then we slept divinely, entwined like lazy vines.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the months after Stéphane, I only fucked strangers. Pickups, chance encounters, professionals when my luck was out and my balls were blue. One exception: when I was in Paris, there was a cop, a thickset blond with sultry eyes and an ass like a tourniquet. I did him more than once—once too often. I was picking up signs, like he wanted some kind of connection. Sometimes, memories blindsided me and I couldn’t come in him. I fucked him even after the lube dried, which I guess he liked, not that I gave a shit. I’d pull out and if I was in the mood, I’d grope around some, feel his ring strain around my wrist, but mostly I got my face in, sucked deep into membrane until his rising cries and savage orgasm triggered me.

Cock and ass, sweat and jizz: all the connection I was looking for.

He’d called off dinner at the last moment, some situation at Beaubourg. I hung around in the restaurant, pissed and horny, and thought about calling Edouard; he’s a charmless prick and expensive, but he gives fabulous head. Or a bar, maybe a club. Maybe not. The last guy who hit on me, an angel-faced Euroboy clone, twisted around midfuck, told me he loved me, then begged me to squat, take a dump on his dick.

One of the waiters called out, “
Il se fait tard, m’sieu. Il faut fermer
.”

I gave him a look. “Coupla minutes.”

The window had misted up and I wiped it with my sleeve. The snow that had threatened all day had finally started and the cobblestones were whitening. The last time but one I was with Stéphane we’d been here, in Montmartre. The scene rewound and I let it play. You do it often enough, it loses its charge.

He grips my arm as he counts down, figuring I’ll cheat. Rocketing up the steps, two by two, I grab at nothing as he whoops, swerves, beats me to the top. Ashen with cold in the bright December afternoon, we shiver at a sidewalk café and diss the artists in the square; such severe critics. He blows on his cup and turns his glasses to me, his eyes dancing as the steam clears the lenses. I grin and he slips his hand into my pocket, stealing warmth. His chilled fingers trace a message on my palm that makes me shift on the rickety seat, cross my legs. He murmurs against my cheek and coffee is bitter on his breath. Later, when I’m inside him, I give him the heat of my body. I move in him, moan with him, cradle him with my love. I watch his lovely face crease as his semen spurts for me.
“Je t’aime, David.”

Lying cunt.

The jangle of the doorbell made me jump. A tall guy came in, brushing snow from his coat, and the waiters circled him, gesticulating and bitching. He played with his keys and shot a glance in my direction. I dug around for my wallet, stopped when I saw him approach.

He smiled as he hooked out a chair.
“Vous permettez?”

“They’re about to close,” I said. Enough with the frigging French.

“Ah, they will wait. It is my restaurant, this. Lucien Seignier.”

“David Dos Passos.”

I checked him out as he unwound his scarf. Older than me, midthirties. Dark hair, early gray above his ears. An edgy, sculpted face softened by a beautifully cut mouth. The black cashmere muffled his body but I got a sense of slenderness, fine bones. His cool hazel eyes rapidly assessed me, liked what they saw, and my dick tightened.

He sat back. “So, David, have you enjoyed your meal?”

For a second, I couldn’t recollect what I’d eaten. “The duck. It was fine.”

“
Bien
. You are having a holiday in Paris?”

“I work in La Défense.”

“Yes? And what is your work?”

I should have gotten a laminated card. Essential biographical data:
Six-one, one-ninety. Black, blue. Eight inches, cut. Takes it up the ass for the right guy.
I realized I was frowning and made an effort. The man wanted to flirt a little first, where was the harm? It wasn’t like I had anything better to do.

“I’m a banker,” I said. “I’m based in London, come over two, three times a month.”

“And what does a banker like to do in Paris when he is not…banking?”

“If I’m not doing it, I’m thinking about it.”

Fine laughter lines bracketed his sexy mouth. His teeth were square and very white. One incisor jutted slightly. If I kissed, I’d lick it, run my tongue along the gum line, right to the back. But I didn’t kiss tricks.

“Bien sûr
, one must have some recreation.” He picked up the wine bottle and studied the label, scratched delicately at a loose edge. His fingers were long and lightly tan and I could feel them splayed on my butt, one squirming inside, working its magic.

“Where do you stay?”

“La Boussole, it’s off the rue de Poitou.”

“I know this hotel, I live in Le Marais.” He hesitated, then set the bottle down, dismissing it. “This is a fair wine but I have others, some fine vintages. But not here.” He looked directly at me and I knew that his dick was as stiff as mine. “If you have no plans, perhaps you will care to try some?”

I didn’t go home with them, either. You’re in their place, their shit all around. You’re all fucked out, the guy’s legs are heavy on your shins and you’re relaxed, a little sleepy. He talks and you turn your head on the pillow, study his profile and you think,
nice guy.
He takes your cock in his mouth again and you get so fucking hard and now it’s kind of better because you like him. You see the man beyond the cock and you like him.

“David?”

I wanted to do him right there on the table, the linen cloth screwing in his fists, pain bending his spine as I split his hot French ass. The cute waiter, the young Algerian, watching from the doorway, fingering his prick, climaxing along with
Monsieur.

“David, it is late. I think we must leave now, allow these good men to go home to their wives.”

Maybe I was startled into it. Maybe the rush of blood to my dick had shut down the
Look before you leap, asshole!
center of my brain. Shit, there could have been an unusual conjunction of the fucking planets. The alarms were wailing in my head but I found myself nodding.

A brief smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I think you are a man who appreciates fine wine.
Alors, on va.”

 

It was warm in the Lexus. He drove skillfully, hands tapping the wheel, impatient at red lights. He said something about plans to visit the Sonoma vineyards and I tuned out, peered through the windshield, not that there was anyone worth looking at. The Marais had emptied fast, even the hustlers and street vendors defeated by the swirling snow.

“Hey,
Anglais
!” The kid sidesteps, blocks me, flashes a grin. “Ten euros only, two for fifteen. Buy for your pretty girlfriend, yes? Your wife, also?” He waggles the gloves at me and winks. “Warm their hands.”

“David,
on est arrivé
.”

I glanced at the hand on my thigh. I wondered again whether Stéphane had ever opened my gift.

 

If my mind hadn’t been on other things, I might have been impressed. Blond wood and crystal, charcoal leather sofas, the only color a vivid Heriz rug that had to be kosher: you live in the Marais, you don’t do fake. I listened to him chink bottles and gave my dick a reassuring squeeze; I was headed for one staggering fuck.

He came into the room and waved two glasses at a stack of hardbacks on a low table. “You see, I try to improve my English. You like English writers?”

Chablis; a Grand Cru. I held a delicious mouthful and slid my eyes over his small, curved ass, savoring the anticipation as much as the wine. “Some,” I said. “Depends.”

“This one I like, she—”

I took the drinks and put them on the table. “What do you say we skip the book report?”

He smiled uncertainly, not following. I grabbed his hand and held it against my cock: universal language. “You like this?”

He liked it all right. His arm snaked around my neck and he pulled me in for a kiss. Smoothly, I lifted my jaw so he’d miss my mouth. He bit at my throat, sucking at stubble as he struggled one-handed with his zipper, couldn’t get it down over the bulge. I did it for him and watched his eyes hood as I made a production of unbuttoning my own fly. I threaded my hand through damp cotton, making him flinch as I grazed a ticklish spot. His hard-on was oozing and so flinty I was scared I’d snap the thing off at the root. It lay dense and engorged, little zings of lust lifting it off my palm. I stroked a fingertip along a vein and eased the skin back to expose a succulent head, slick and pre-lubed. Frenchmen, Brits—fuck, I am so into uncut dicks. I jacked him a little and my cock clenched, angling up like it was magnetized to my belly. I groaned as he gripped it and nosed it to his own, slit to slit, in a slimy kiss.

“Oh, yeah.” I steadied myself against his shoulders and looked down, watched him do it. The feel of his silky foreskin wrapping my head was so hot, so fucking erotic, my vision blurred. He was trembling and I was so turned on I almost missed what he was hissing in my ear. Almost.

“You are beautiful,
Américain
. Many men must tell you this. But…perhaps there is one, a certain man? You have a lover, David? When he does these things with you, when you are fucking, he tells you that you are beautiful? Tell me what he says.”

My stomach lurched. A sick feeling washed through me and my scalp crawled.

Je t’aime, chéri
. I love you
.

“David?” He frowned and gently rubbed my cheek. I could smell my balls on him and the rich gaminess of our cocks.

I peeled his hand away. “I’m sorry,” I said.

The flush of arousal on his face intensified, turned brick red. He gave a little laugh, then stared in disbelief as I stuffed my dying boner back into my jeans.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“
Jésus
,” he muttered.

“I mean it, man, it has nothing to do with you.”

He instantly recovered his poise but his mouth was a thin, deadly line as he yanked his zipper up. “You say so? I believe it has much to do with me.”

“Not true. Listen—”

“No.” He crossed his arms on his chest and looked at me, his eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out how the fuck he’d gotten landed with this prick-teasing asshole. He set his jaw. “It is best if you leave.”

The dim feelings of guilt I had drained away to be replaced by a sudden, livid anger. I took a step, got right in his face. “I’ll be happy to, you self-righteous prick.” He held his ground, didn’t flicker a muscle as he stared me out. “Fuck this shit,” I said softly. “Fuck it and fuck you.”

My jacket had fallen off the couch. One sleeve was inside out and my hands shook as I pulled it free.

“
Américain
.”

Behind him, clots of snow as big as dimes patterned the windowpane. I thought of the walk ahead of me and flipped the collar up around my ears.

“David, we have misunderstood, there is no need for you to go.” I looked at him and he shrugged ruefully. “Come,” he coaxed. “You have not drunk your wine.”

The air blew out of my lungs. Jesus Christ.

He sat alongside me on the sofa, nursing his glass. “I spoke of what should be private. I am sorry, I did not mean to offend you.”

“Forget it.”

He swirled the wine and downed it in a gulp, grimacing. I could see he was working up to something and though I was in no mood for True Confessions, I figured maybe I owed him. He hadn’t meant anything by it, the guy didn’t know fuck.