Guillaume Bacharene
bacharene@gmail.com
This story is a bit of fact and fiction although based on some key actual details. Some names have been changed for privacy protection purposes. The mixture of fact and fiction is what good writing is all about in my view. And, one has to write, above all, for the reader. A writer is an agent or channel to get the words right and tell a wonderful story to which readers can relate.
My romance with the US goes back to the early 1980s. While there are exceptions as there are all over the world, I was totally seduced by the general niceness of people and especially, the beautiful, confident and sexy men who were totally enthralled by my accent. But also, it was the genuine openness and way they expressed thoughts and feelings. I had never had my ego so exquisitely massaged the same way ever. So, I am 1.80m tall, worked out and had what others described as "model looks" to the extent that when I was doing my first masters degree I had been offered a modelling contract in Paris. I thought about it and the money and travel, but figured I had too many brains to be treated like a glorified clothes' horse and as some superficial entity who had "the looks" but nothing else. I turned it down.
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My US Lecture Tour and Master Classes - Part One
It was 1983 and I was to have four weeks in the US doing a series of lectures and master classes based one some research I had done. It doesn't really matter what is was all about now but it was held to be extremely important. It was an offer that came out of nowhere really. Sometimes, the powers that be seem to have a plan for us. This was to be no exception. I was able to negotiate really generous terms with a week in Honolulu on the way and then sessions in San Francisco, Chicago, New York, Washington DC, New Orleans, Los Angeles and San Diego.
I indicated earlier about my first touch with America being the most amazingly good thing for one's ego. In each of these cities I was to have an experience, which could read like a romance novel. It was heady and all culminated some years later with me meeting the big love of my life, a beautiful American. After 30 years we are still together. But that's another complete story I might also tell one day!
Honolulu
So, in Honolulu I was staying out of the city a little in an amazing home on Wilhelmina Rise, homes even then being in the mega zillion bracket. I had been given the use of the house for my stay. Being a great fitness freak, I would walk to downtown Waikiki and on Wilhelmina Rise was where I had the first ego massage of the trip and run as well. The steep rise was perfect.
I was waiting to cross at a red light. An open, bright red sports car cruised up to a stop. The guy driving looked like a blond surfer boy and movie star all in one, perhaps 25 with no shirt and for all intents and purposes, no pants either since all was cocooned, hidden, as if he were sitting in a red bathtub, taking a bath. The lights were a complicated set and so took a while to work their various sequences. He and I were so close he could have reached out and touched me and I him. I was very relaxed and in a bit of a daydream, admiring a massive Banyan tree nearby. I was wearing Bermuda shorts, unbuttoned short-sleeved shirt and sunnies, hair thrown apart and constantly being re-arranged by the ocean breeze. Then, above the traffic noise, I realised he was speaking to me. But, it was his low whistle that caught my attention first. I looked around.
"Yeah Baby, it's me, I'm looking at you; and you're fucken hot, beautiful, sexy, and I'm drooling. Would you like to come home and fuck me?"
I blushed bright scarlet. Never having had such an experience before. My jaw dropped. He shrugged, made an open gesture with his hands, flashed a white-toothed smile and then the lights changed. He deftly flicked a card, which landed at my feet, waved, smiled again and was off. I picked it up. It said:
Kevin Jacobs, Entrepreneur, and gave a telephone number.
Later that day, having killed the shops at Ala Moana Centre, as I was sitting on the terrace having a cool drink, admiring the stunning views from Wilhelmina Rise, I remembered the card. I called the number.
"This is Kevin. How may I help you?" It was a damned sexy voice.
"Kevin, this is Guillaume, the guy at the traffic lights this morning."
"Oh fucken heck. You for real? Guillaume! What a fucken sexy name to go with the rest! And that fucken accent; Baby, I am creaming myself already! You French or what?"
"Yes, I am."
I was again taken aback. Nothing like America being up front, direct, honest and always open for opportunity and business. Kevin's entrepreneurial skills were clearly, highly tuned. This guy had it all worked out.
"So Guillaume, you up to fucking me? You're my early Christmas present if you are!"
'Well, Kevin......... it's just that I have never had a experience like this ever before..." I managed to squeeze out.
"Like what?"
"Being propositioned at a traffic light stop!"
"Fuck Baby, I nearly blew on the spot when I saw you standing there and figured, what the fuck, you could say no, you could ignore me or you could say yes. Nothing to lose. So, I figure now, in a way, you've said yes." He continued, "So, where are you? I can come pick you up. I am now so fucken hot for you."
So, my head spinning from the pace and detail of everything and the entire situation, I gave Kevin the address. He said it was less than six minutes from his house. The horn tooted and I came out.
"Fuck Baby, fuck Guillaume. My cock's gonna kill me with this anticipation and denial! You're a fucken walking torture machine!"
He leaned over and opened the door, smiling. When I got in, he gave me a kiss on each cheek. He was flawless in that uniquely American way. He exuded confidence to the extent I could smell it. The leather upholstery on the car gave off its own club-like and sensual aroma.
"I know you guys do that; kiss on the cheeks. So fucken sexy!" His hand ruffled my hair and rested on my shoulder. He kept looking at me and smiling even after we set off and I was worried he would run of the road.
Kevin's house was down a driveway and overlooked the valley, verdant and fragrant with flowers. The sweet scent of Kahili hovered in the humid air like a sensual preliminary. Downtown throbbed and pulsated as only Honolulu can. There is something about the landscape, which seems to hold everything close; every sound and nuance, embraced and contained by the Ko'olau Range, Diamond Head and the ocean off Waikiki.
The minute we were inside the house, Kevin said, "Now let me really look at you. Fuck, you are even more beautiful close up! I hit the fucken jackpot with you!"
He came over and gave me a big hug and more kisses, ruffling my hair. Now that really turns me on. I have a very sensitive scalp! Shivers ran down my spine.
"I have some nice Pol Roger Extra Brut on ice. We need to celebrate; I need to celebrate my early Christmas present!"
He put on some Dave Brubeck and said with a smile, "Dave Brubeck's Taking Five but I'm taking it fucken all!"
I laughed. He kept touching me. I loved it.
On one level, everything could have been totally overwhelming and yet I came to recognise that this was how they do things in America: take charge by being up front. It wasn't as if I had no space to talk, respond even but this being a situation I had never been in before meant, in a sense, that I was flying blind. And of course, I was in his house, his space. He had a plan in his mind and was sticking with it to its culmination.
We went out to the lanai. It was bounded on all sides by a lush splendour of tropical plants with downtown Waikiki and the ocean beyond. There was an outdoor sofa with cushions and a low table. Shadows from the coconut palms, massaged everything in the breeze. Kevin brought out the Pol Roger, an ice bucket and two flutes. The bottle smoked steam sensuously in the close, humid air.
As he stood before me I really realised how exquisitely beautiful he was. Until then it had been so about me. Kevin was about my height but carried more muscle, polished in what was then, for me at least, a uniquely American thing. His blonde hair sparkled in the sunlight, his teeth were white and flawless, and he was devoid of visible body hair so that the muscles of his arms and legs rippled as he moved as if in a slow and sensual, choreographed dance. His accent also turned me on: it caressed and licked me all over. My cock went into a world of its own. And, he was into me big time. That was a turn on.
Ceremoniously, he opened the Pol Roger but with class: in France a loud pop as the cork is removed, is frowned upon as not being good form. Kevin did the slow release version so that the Pol Roger gasped and sighed into life. He poured, placing the bottle in the ice bucket and then sat down almost on top of me, raising my right arm and nestling in close, holding my right hand with fingers entwined. He smelled of lemon and lime but also his own subtle sweat, deliciously so. My hormones were already racing. He reached over with his left had and handed me a glass before picking up his own.
"To us, Guillaume. I'm not a virgin of course but yours will be the first French cock ever up my ass." There was that disarming directness again. But, by now I was adjusting to it; finding it a certain comfort zone because it was totally predictable.
In any case, he had it all planned out and yet I didn't feel like a mere sex object. Instead I felt, well, appreciated, valued. And, the entire experience was a massive turn on as much as it was unexpected. We clinked flutes. The Pol Roger floated bubbles on my tongue, in my mouth and throat. The sensation bubbled figuratively in my brain. Kevin nuzzled under my chin, my ear, my neck, sending electric currents racing all through me. Lion licks. I began to moan softly, uncontrollably, involuntary. The entire scenario, the setting, was intensely erotic and the Pol Roger was doing ever more amazing things to my head. I bent down and kissed him, our tongues exploring. We both tasted of Pol Roger, tingly and fresh. Kevin's body shuddered softly against mine. He began to moan. His left arm was now behind my back, caressing and kneading strongly; his right hand undid the buttons of my shirt and found my nipples. Our kissing became more ardent. I changed position so I could kiss him more easily. He took my left hand and guided it to his imprisoned cock, pressing it down beneath his hand in a sensual, slow, rotational pressure dance. This guy really knew how to push my every button. He ran his tongue around my nipples and down my treasure trail to my belly button. I lifted his polo shirt and found his nipples as well. He found my zipper in the course of a lingering kiss. My cock was ready to explode and so, when he skilfully liberated it from the tight confines of my Bermuda shorts and briefs, it was kissed by the freedom and air. I was wet; leaking and so turned on. Kevin bent down and started to suck me. I thought I would explode then and there, in an instant. He was a real expert and I couldn't remember ever being sucked in the way he did. I was moaning and writhing. He murmured, "Wow, I thought all French guys were uncut."
"It's a family thing," I whispered back, "all the men in my family are." Turtle Doves fluttered in and started cooing in the palms. It was so appropriate for the moment.
I spread my legs and made him stand up in front of me to lessen the intensity as my entire being was set to explode. He threw his head back and removed his polo shirt, tossing it aside as I undid his belt and button and slid down his zipper. His hands were on my shoulders and he was moaning before I even touched him. His cock head poked way above his briefs. I ran my tongue around the head.
"Fuck, Guillaume, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" His body started to spasm. I slowly pulled his briefs and shorts down in one gentle, continuous move. Now, I am 18cm but Kevin was at least 23cm, a beautifully cut cock, a true work of the creator's art, smooth, velvety and sheer perfection. He moaned loudly as I returned his sucking and drank in his pre-cum. He was running like the proverbial faucet, tasting sweet like honeyed nectar.
Suddenly, he gave a shudder and said, "I am going to go into my bedroom and get ready for you, Guillaume. I am so fucken turned on, I can't wait to get your cock inside me. When I am ready, I will call you in."
I fortified myself with more Pol Roger and replenished his flute as well. The music changed to Ravel's "Bolero". Kevin really knew what he wanted and what he was doing. From a slow start, "Bolero" builds up to a crescendo. I smiled. Ravel is French and Kevin was planning to the last detail the entire process of getting his first French cock. How could I fail to be impressed!
"Guillaume..... I am ready for you." It was a call to action and the honour of France was at stake.
I picked up both flutes and found the bedroom. It was designer perfect of course with a California king, beautiful linen and orchids everywhere. Kevin was naked on his bed, knees parted and raised, arms by his side, chin slightly back, eyes closed. He was beautiful, there was no denying that. I could have come just looking at him.
I set the flutes on the bedside table and undressed fully, noticing a large dispenser of lube and some towels set back on a shelf. Kevin opened his eyes as I undressed, watching.
"Fucken beautiful Guillaume, fucken beautiful." He held out his arms, but, it was time for me to take control.
"Close your eyes, Kevin. I am going to take you places you never imagined possible."
I started at his ankles, gently kissing and licking, working up his legs and thighs, one leg and then another. He moaned and trembled. He tasted like the Pacific ocean. He moaned louder and trembled more when I licked behind his knees.
"Fuck, Guillaume." There were going to be many more utterings of that expletive, which had become indelibly a part of Kevin's entire persona, I thought. It was him. I loved it.
Next, I started on his upper thighs, near his smooth ball sack, again mirroring my actions on both sides. He was hairless around these places but his pubes were lush and thick; dark blond. Whether or not he shaved elsewhere became immaterial. He placed a pillow underneath in a sensual movement, raising his nether regions to a better and more accessible height and angle. I ran my tongue around his balls and the groove between his upper thighs and body. I licked his taint and then gave his hole a circular flick-licking as well. He shuddered and cried out, his entire body shaking, trembling with pleasure. I ran my tongue up the length of his cock, savouring the pooling pre-cum then, ran my tongue up his body to his pectorals and nipples, alternating licking and nibbling. He was writhing and his moans were getting louder and louder. Holding my body over him without touching, I licked his neck, under his chin and ears, then ran around his eyes. I discovered that his chin was especially sensitive when I gently nibbled and bit it. His breathing became its own symphony in time with Ravel. Meanwhile, "Bolero" was in a repeat loop and so it was passionate love without end, each reprise more potent than the previous one.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.... My God!"
And then, hovering over Kevin, I kissed around his mouth. His lips rose to meet mine as he moaned even louder again. Somewhere a car alarm went off before being swallowed up by Ravel, any raucous voice whatever being out of place in this paradise of sensuality and sex. His lips parted and I ran my tongue around his upper and lower lips internally. And then, our tongues began a slow and gentle waltz of their own which rapidly became a samba and then a tango. Without breaking away, I reached over and retrieved the lube. Kevin heard the squish as I took some into my hand.
"Oh fuck, Guillaume, I so fucken want you; I so fucken want your cock deep inside me."
I kissed him deeply and evermore ardently. He writhed against me. I had pinned both his arms back over his head while I licked his pits. They were like a sensual, aromatic, aphrodisiac except I was already at the heights of pleasure, seeing him, feeling his entire body and being, responding to all I was doing.
"Please Guillaume..... this is fucken torture even though I'm in fucken heaven already!" Kevin's voice trailed off into a long series of moans.
With my lubed fingers, I started to trace around his pucker, drawing sensual patterns. I used my crooked index to enter him gently, stretching his hole in ever widening circles and running up his taint to his balls. Then I inserted one finger, two, three, fingers Kevin's body by now was like a primal earthquake, shuddering, trembling, moaning, gasping. The intensity ran in total synchronicity with "Bolero", over and over. And then, lubing up my cock, I painted his hole with the head. Kevin almost screamed and drew up his legs. Effortlessly, positioned perfectly, my cock slipped to the hilt, deep inside him. The sensation was incredible, warm and alternatively tighter and looser as Kevin used his ass muscles and insides to massage my cock, drawing me in deeper and then releasing in mutual thrusting and receiving. Talk about a power bottom in one way but it wasn't that at all; we had become as one, two parts of a greater whole. Between deep and passionate kisses, I licked his neck, nibbled and bit his chin, kissed his eyelids, tongued his ears. The intensity was something I had never experience before. We were connected both physically and mentally, even spiritually I would say in thinking afterwards. As I fucked him, I gently jacked Kevin's cock. And then I realised in perfect harmony and timing, "Bolero" was again building up to its crescendo, as were Kevin and I. By now, this was not about words, it was about feelings and sensations; that intense connection mere words cannot describe, and, just as indescribable in words as is the melodic song of a bird. This was about feeling and experiencing. We both cried out as we came at exactly the same moment, lifted to a higher plane of poetry and music and the most intense pleasure I had ever known.
I collapsed onto Kevin, as our orgasms continued and then we could bask, deeply connected still in that warm and intense afterglow. I was sweating; Kevin was sweating but again it was that heady, deeply intense, sensual and sexual thing. It was completeness. We lay there, kissing and caressing for a good thirty minutes.
"Fuck Guillaume. Had I died and gone to heaven it would all have been worth it!" I laughed.
Needless to say, the rest of that week was the most intensive sexual time I had ever had. But of course we both knew it was finite. I cooked dinner for us both. I fucked Kevin three times a day but as intense as the entire sexual thing was, we also discovered a close intellectual and personal connection too.
One evening, late in my visit, as Waikiki was all lit up, we sat on Kevin's lanai with another bottle of Pol Roger. He was nestled against me, as he so loved to do, head on my shoulder. Bodily, we fit together so well.
"You know Guillaume, I could fall in love with you so easily but I am not letting myself." Kevin looked serious. I smiled, and kissed his eyes.
"Me too with you, Kevin but we live in totally different worlds and swapping one for the other is not that easy." It was a statement of the obvious and we had sorted out the complex feelings and emotions in our heads. At times, brain over emotion works best. He nodded and kissed me back. I had two nights remaining.
"I am just amazed you don't have anybody in your life, Kevin. I mean you could take your pick. They must be lining up for interviews and a try out!" I kissed him again.
"It's funny isn't it," he said: "me preferring something more exotic than another American; you being totally able to fit the "exotic" bill and yet, here we are planning to be friends forever because we can't be fulltime lovers forever. In so many ways it sucks but here we are being perfectly sensible and reasonable about it. What the fuck happened to the notion that love conquers all?"
I thought for a moment, savouring the Pol Roger, knowing that before long and in spite of the turn of conversation, I would again spend a couple of hours fucking Kevin.
"At least we've both got brains to rationalise it all," I said eventually.
"But Guillaume, you are a perfect catch and match too. Why not? Have you never met anybody?"
I thought for a moment.
"The people I seem to meet and really like are all in other countries. And I guess I am too fussy. There is a point where the most beautiful man in the world with brains to match might get on my nerves because of something he does, some habit perhaps, like dropping clothes all over the house or not putting things in the dishwasher or leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor. Suddenly, it's like a developing disease; the attraction starts to go. Of course, perhaps it is the same and others feel that about me as well but whatever, the cooling of the ardour and the first flush of passion is perhaps where reality sits."
"Fucken hell Guillaume. We are sitting here working out why we can't be lovers and being so fucken intelligent and rational about it all. France probably won't let me in there and the US probably won't let you in here but, we don't actually know? I mean, if we really wanted to be lovers forever.
"Let's work on it; keep the thing going, keep talking. See how we feel over time."
It was obvious. Kevin poured the rest of the Pol Roger. We clinked flutes.
"This is our signature really, Kevin, Pol Roger I mean."
Kevin laughed.
"You mean Pol Roger and fucking our brains out. Let's be complete here Guillaume."
We both ended up in hysterics. And then, Kevin took my empty flute, put it on the table and started to kiss me and rub my cock.
"Tonight, Guillaume, I am going to ride your cock like a cowboy." He took my hand and led me to the bedroom.
Epilogue:
Kevin and I remain close friends to this day, through all the lovers we have both had. While we both agree the sheer sexual passion we had for each other, remains totally unique and, wherever that might have ended up, our deep love based friendship has never wavered. How do you explain that? You can't. You simply have to experience it.