t six in the evening I stood in my best suit, taking cover from the pouring rain under a torn awning in front of a bakery, the smell of bread and cake in my nostrils, temptingly sweet, my heart so low and my knees so weak I didn't dare breathe or take another step.
The conference had gone on til four, and I had sat there, zombie-like, thinking of nothing but his smile and the room number, mulling it over in my head in a million commutations, to the point where I could not remember the actual figures, the promising twelve fourteen, the titillating sequence of digits, which, over presentation after presentation, question after answer, I looked up on the Internet, to learn how to say it in French, for no other reason than I wanted to be only with him in spirit, and think only of him, and not of the dry and boring technical subjects that rose on slide after slide on the screen before me.
In my head swirled the voices of the speakers, somewhere far behind a wall of keen anticipation, and I heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing else but the wish to be with him and the pounding of my heart, and the throbbing of my turgid cock, all afternoon, without reprieve. The minutes dragged along in painful slowness, and when the last speaker finished I was out the door, in a taxi, and back at my flat; undressed, showered, jacked off---I have to before meeting anyone, otherwise I climax too soon---had stood there for thirty minutes, the cold water flowing over my body, my hands on my stomach, with the barest outline of muscles. I felt soft and weak and ashamed, that now, with so much promise of romance ahead, I had not been to the gym more often in the last months, that I had clearly let myself go, in fact, and was now entirely unprepared, for love and lust. And yet I toweled off, and found a new shirt and suit, and was out the house and on my way to the hotel.
It had started to rain just before I arrived. Because a U-turn towards Minquan Road would have taken too much time, I told the driver to drop me across the street from the hotel. There I stood now, sheltered from the worst of the downpour, but still feeling drenched from the oppressing humidity in the air. I looked across the roofs of the honking cars to the entrance: a taxi stopped and a well-dressed couple alighted. The car drove off and was replaced by two black limousines; once more people in fine evening dress emerged and hurried through the revolving doors into the air-conditioned lobby. A sign proclaimed that probably a wedding reception was in progress---I was too far away to make out the characters, but the colors of the board told me as much.
Would he be home by now? Would he have returned to the safety and privacy of the hotel room, after having been surrounded and assaulted by his audience all afternoon? Or would he still be attending some function---a dinner most likely? It was unthinkable, I realized, that he, as an important conference guest, would not be busy tonight. In a flash, and far too late, I noticed that I had come far too early. If he was in, now, at six, he would be showering and dressing and on his way out again. What a fool I was, standing here, without even an umbrella. In this monsoon downpour, I couldn't even cross the street unscathed.
Water was everywhere, and the image of him showering in preparation for his dinner suddenly stuck in my mind with exciting clarity. Not for the first time that day, I imagined his naked body, his own hands over his soft muscles. I stood at the curb, absentmindedly, until a man bumped into me and cursed in Cantonese. I took out my cell phone and called the hotel---the wrong one. Again I had confused the Ambassador and the Intercontinental, whose Chinese names sounded so similar. The rain increased. A passing car splattered my shoes, and I stepped back as I rang for information. A computer voice asked me to speak the name, I said it clearly and slowly, and the system returned a beep. I hung up, and the number of the hotel flashed on my phone screen with a button Dial Now beneath. I pressed it. A woman answered at tedious length in three languages: Chinese, English, Japanese. I tried in vain to cut in, but she finished unperturbed. I asked for the room, the magic twelve fourteen, and she said, ---One moment, please. I heard a ring tone. After seven rings, she was back, apologized, explained that the answering system was broken, and asked whether I wanted to leave a message. I said no, and was about to hang up, when she added. ---I believe Mister Lavoisier has actually just left a second ago. I saw him leave. She pronounced the name something like 'Lafossen' and I cursed her for it, that uncultured whore! How dare she! How can you mangle that noble name, you ignorant cow, I thought, and then the 'a second ago' kicked in, surfaced in my conscious mind with painful urgency. I looked feverishly at the door, expecting to observe him get into a taxi, but again, I saw only people arrive, not depart. There was no queue, no hotel employee flagging down taxis. I stood motionless and looked up and down the breadth of the building. No handsome French man ambling about, lost on the Asian street. Again a woman rammed me. She was pulling a small shopping trolley which contained a barking dog. From there, my eyes wandered over the puddles on the pavement, until they met the entrance of a Japanese beer house behind me. I entered swiftly, found the place full of diners.
I took a seat at the bar, ordered a Kirin beer and the dinner kaiseki, house style, and wished I still smoked, or did something irrational and repetitive, like counting chopsticks in the stand, that would keep me from being so nervous and hopelessly horny. The small bar stool constrained my groin, and I tried arranging my cock without being too obvious. My knees bored into the wood: I pressed harder to increase the pain. I thought of my parents, and then of work, the report I had to finish tomorrow: no matter what I tried, my hard-on throbbed in my trousers like a wild animal. I considered jerking off again, in the toilet of this pub, but there were women present in the room. For some reason, masturbating and women never go together in my mind.
What was I doing here? Had he truly invited me this afternoon, at the conference? Was there anything between us? Had there been a spark, an understanding? Well, of course there had been: he had come back, all the way into the conference room, just to tell me his phone number. That could not be misinterpreted. He was expecting me to come this very evening, only he had not said when. He must have thought it obvious that I should come late. Come at all? Was he expecting me to come at all? Had he given me the hotel name and room number merely so I could call him? Surely he would have given me his mobile phone number instead. Or maybe not, if it is a French phone. Too considerate, saving the cost of long distance. So what? I thought as the beer was placed before me. Had I come for nothing? Was he after a drawn-out romance, ten calls and romantic dinners before we finally fucked? I had assumed he was after a one-night stand: idiotic presumption really, based on too many years in the gay world---we make our own cliches, and live by them. Gorgeous boy with horny eyes, can only mean sex. Oh god, had I completely misinterpreted his motives? Was he indeed looking for love? An Asian boyfriend? A romantic meeting? Would he be offended, seeing I had come to his hotel? Would he just put me down as another slut, another man only good for fuck after fuck, and no emotional commitment? Me, moi!---who was so desperate for romantic adventure himself? He would put me down as another gay man obsessed with sex, and dislike me, and lower his loving dark eyes and say, 'you only came for sex... I thought you would be different.'
I took a mouthful of beer, warmed it up before swallowing, and realized how utterly idiotic my inner monolog was. He had made eyes at me, he had submitted to my stare, he had, after all, in front of four-hundred people, asked me, 'have I satisfied you, Sir?' How could he be anything else but a horny cock-whore, a little bottom, waiting to be spanked and fucked---a little French banker-slut, ready to have his first adventure with an Asian hunk? Me, a hunk. Yeah, sure.
The food arrived with the usual efficiency of such places, in less than five minutes, and a wooden box with eight compartments was set before me. I took up my chopsticks and wondered if I should eat all the rice; there was so much of it. Surely it would fill me, and feeling bloated, I wouldn't be any good for sex. I decided to eat only the tempura and fish, and leave it at one beer. Alcohol makes me drowsy, and red in the face. If he was a submissive bottom, I had to project authority, appear in charge, not be sleepy, overfed, and glowing like a light bulb.
The television, hung high in the corner of the room, blared across the eatery the sounds of a dumb Japanese game show, with contestants falling into pools of water, and trying to cross an abyss by climbing spider-like over an oily net. Behind me a woman sobbed, and accused her dining partner of being insensitive, and caring only about money. I watched the TV screen and finished my dinner, mercifully without being too self-conscious, at least for a brief period.
If he wasn't in by eight, I could always go home. I could call him and pretend I was home. I could ask him, if the conversation went well, if indeed he wanted me to come round. I could try to... then it hit me like a bolt of lightning: the truth about myself. For years, since returning back to Asia, I myself had rejected the sordid routine of the gay dating circuit. The fucking around, the endless one-night stands. I wanted romance, for crying out loud! I wanted to fall in love. And yet, all I had done since first hearing his melodious voice in the conference room, was imagine dominating him; he, naked on his knees, chocking on my large prick. I was so proud of my looks and my big cock, the pride suffocated all my sensitive feelings, my romantic personality. I am, I thought, putting down my chopsticks, really, no better than my fellow homosexuals, defined by their desires, controlled by their cocks. There is no gay lifestyle, I thought, no gay culture, just gay sex. Lots of it. Everywhere.
And what had I done, when opportunity knocked?
It is not usual for Asians to be as tall, as athletic and as well-endowed as I am. All my friends feel inferior to Caucasians: weaker, paler, thinner, shorter. It isn't just perceptions of course, it is true: there is a genetic difference, we are frailer and smaller and its not easy for an Asian boy to be dominant and demanding. In my case, I blame a Dutch great-grandfather for an injection of stature, a little hair on the chest, much on my bum and legs, and a surprisingly large appendage. My predilection for Caucasians, psychologically, may be the same racist theme: I don't just prefer Caucasians because their stronger, harder, hairier bodies turn me on far more than a girlish Asian frame. It is also a thrill to make the people who have ruled the world for so long---big and fat and obnoxious whites---squirm on the bed and beg on their knees. Sex is all about power: personal, private, public, racial, historical; playful of course, but power nonetheless. As much as some Asians submitted voluntarily to a hirsute, towering master race, I longed to vanquish it. I am Asian, but I am not your servant. I am your master. Like predators in the Kalahari; in bed and youth, we train for war.
Such nonsense of racial eroticism whirled in my brain and I rose from my thoughts when the game show was over and a news program started. I had looked at the screen for half an hour without taking in anything. A woman finally removed the empty dinner box and asked if I wanted another beer. I said no, asked for the bill, and couldn't get out of the stuffy little restaurant fast enough. It was 7.10 pm. The rain had stopped.
The alcohol in my blood made me conscious of my beating heart. I took out the phone and wanted to call the hotel again, but what was the point? Surely, he couldn't be back if he had just left an hour ago. I walked up to the traffic light and crossed the street, then entered the building and found a seat by the window, in a deep and comfortable lounge chair. Immediately, the bar waitress was at my side, smiling, and I ordered water and a coke. The bar was empty except for a fat American with a whiskey in his hand, sitting at the far end, across three empty tables and a bouquet of fake flowers. No---they were real. In this smokey darkness? He smiled at me, then raised his glass. I quickly looked away, out into the street, trying not to encourage him. With Americans, who are easy to identify as such in Asian cities, one can never be sure. Used to traveling in their own vast country, meeting only like-minded folks and not regarding their fellow nationals as strangers at all, they often talk to people, even very intimately, without any obvious aim or overt sexual undertone. On any other night, I would maybe have smiled back and he would have come over, and we would have spent an hour talking about computers and solar power, and the rise of China, and he would have thanked me for my company, and trundled back to his room alone.
But not tonight. My heart was in a welter, and my cock was still throbbing. I tried to remember the last time the sight of a man like Romain had turned me on so much: never. I was looking for romance, I told myself as my drink arrived, not another one-night stand. If there was any chance for love, I would grab it. But unlatched from my stereotypical role as a dominating top, I felt weak and lost at sea. The ease with which gay men meet for sex makes us entirely unprepared for real romance. We don't recognize it, even if it...is sucking our dicks. Almost instinctively, I called the waitress and asked for a whiskey. Sod it! I wasn't here to play master and slave with Frenchie, I was here to fall in love with him... no, past tense. I was here, really, because throughout the afternoon, in that conference hall, in front of all these people, I had already fallen in love with him. In my erotic mind, I was already lost in his soft embrace and his caring eyes. Yes, that was it. Not here for a sex date, not at all. Here to meet the man of my dreams, the man who himself has loved and desired me for already one afternoon---longer than most sex adventures between gay men last. I was on a date! A romantic date. Still alone with my whiskey, but on the right track nonetheless.
Soon, Romain my lover, would return in a taxi, wearing his fine suit of the afternoon, the black one with the thin blue stripes. Surely he wouldn't have brought a second one a business trip this short. He would espy me in the bar, smile, yes, he would smile already then, with the first glance; then would come over to me. I would sit here in my gray Armani and my favorite tie---tie? was I wearing a---my hand found my neck and my open shirt---no, no tie, I had two buttons of the shirt open, showing off the little chest hair I had, a tuft of black straining to emerge from the baby blue shirt I had bought in London, which made me look---according to the judgment of all the girls at my employer---incredibly sexy.
---I know you won't marry me, had Ay-ling said when I had worn it first to work, but at least give me a child! A child that will be as handsome as you! And then, she had added, as if to hide her shame about her unusual forthrightness, ---at least in that shirt.
Yes, Romain my French paramour, would find me here, and wearing my best shirt, in this sofa chair, he would find me even more attractive than during the conference this afternoon. What had I worn then? Yes, you see, what an improvement. My eyes caught the American's across the room. He was still staring at me. No casual chat in a hotel lounge. He was looking for love. Not tonight, not with you, chubby. I am sorry. I am not striking you from my list, just because you are a little too old and a little too heavy. On the contrary. I have a thing for heavy-set men, if they squeal under the onslaught of my cock, like little girls. I like them even better on the floor, on all floors, when I can study their hairy backs. But that is just sex. And you must see that I can't take care of you tonight. I am waiting for my lover. From France. Handsome, wavy-haired, sonorous-voiced Romain Lavoisier, and again I let the vowels melt on my tongue, and the consonants prickle.
Any moment now, he will walk across the room and stand before me, then, after drinking in my beauty, and maybe already the bulge in my pants---I adjusted by cock, having pulled it out of the briefs and aligned it on my thigh---he would be baffled, speechless, and bend down, and kiss me on the mouth, pull me up, embrace me and say--- ---I am sorry, you wouldn't care for some company? Only I saw you looking at me across... The American ogre stood before me. Tall, and with oily hair, his belly stuck out and into my flushed face. I stared at his crotch: there was a stain on the left side; the zipper wasn't done up completely (probably broken) and a button was missing on the shirt. Oh god! How to tell him politely to piss off and leave me alone? What did he mean, I had been looking at him. He'd been staring at me all this time. I had studied the flower. ---I am sorry, but I am waiting for someone. For a far-too-long and drawn-out moment, the gregarious Yankee gawked at me, maybe deliberating if he should believe me or not. He decided perhaps that it did not matter, either way, I was not interested in him, and said, at length, ---Fair enough. There was an awkward pause. He didn't move. ---If you change your m--- ---I won't. Thank you. He nodded, then turned and walked away off. At the back, the shirt wasn't tucked in properly. He looked sloppy and helpless and comical. His arse was enormous.
A minute later, as I tried to return to my daydream, some people arrived and occupied the chairs beside me. Intent on drowning out the noise, I peered out the window, where the rain had returned with even stronger force. I wondered if Romain would get wet. I wondered what his hair would look like, wet.
Romain Lavoisier, handsome presenter of public procurement policies and financial thingamajigs---I tried to remember what his presentation had been about, but to no avail---will return to his hotel and find me sitting here. He will come across the room walking straight towards me---well, now he will have to make a detour around the newly arrived table of six noisy Japanese, and come over to the window. I wouldn't stay seated, of course. If my cock would just go down a bit, I would stand up, and open my arms, and hug him, and kiss him, and he would take---no, not in public. I wouldn't kiss a man in public, not in my city, in my country. In San Francisco maybe, where people are free, or in London, or Paris, in Paris certainly, but not here. I would embrace him, feel his strong chest, smell the masculine scent---what sort of perfume would he be wearing? What kind of scent suited him? Something fresh and light, something submissive and lightly feminine. Nothing sweat-and-musk like, for sure: only working-class straight men wear that, and wallow in its repulsiveness. No, refined, and elegant, and just a little lemony. Or none at all. Yes, that's it. None at all. Just the smell of his hair and muscles. A day at the conference in an expensive suit: a tangy hint of leather, from the shoes of belt, but the rest, as plain as this: male flesh, seasoned, confident. I'd did my nose into his armpits and breathe in.
Yes, we would hug, and maybe pat each other on the back, buddy-buddy, and then I would ask him if he wanted a drink, that's how it will happen, I thought, and ordered another whiskey when the waitress asked me. We would have one drink here, by the window, and speak of France, and the bank, and air travel. Somehow, with business visitor, one always ends up speaking of airlines. Of course, with him, the conversation would be about the merits of different first class suites. Not the difference in Y fare buckets, and the size of the screen. Non, not Monsieur Lavoisier. He wouldn't watch movies inflight. He'd read: Camus? No...he's modern, international. Something English. And not a dull bestseller. Something unknown, and recently discovered, known only to the cognoscenti. Or better yet: old and rare: Pessoa. That's it. That would go with his dark hair, and the heavy brow: The Book of Disquiet. He would even be able to quote from it, later, when we live together, in our house in the Camargue. Sooner or later, I would tell him that I worked for his employer, that I knew people who knew him, maybe, and that I wanted to be his friend... on Facebook, admitting, in the same breath, that I had looked up his profile online already, and he would say, ---you looked me up, when? And I would say, ---While you gave your presentation, in the conference hall, and... Would he feel embarrassed? Angry? Flattered? No idea. I pondered the question for a moment. How impolite is it to google people and find out their background before talking to them? How stupid is it, really, not to let yourself be surprised by the revelations voluntarily offered by a stranger, and instead rely on the spurious untruths on web pages. What can be learned about a person from the Internet?---nothing really. Absolutely nothing. Not even the birthrate is true, usually. The picture certainly isn't. Or at least ten years younger.
After another drink, maybe, yes, a second one, we would at last retire to his room. No, we wouldn't. We would talk until midnight and arrange to meet again, like couples in romance novels. Wishful thinking. It couldn't be, he would have a flight to catch, and be gone by the morrow. Yes by the morrow. That's the sort of person my French banker is. But we wouldn't just kiss and agree to another date. We are men, after all, of flesh and blood and cock and arse: we would have to fuck. I would catch a glimpse of the bulge in his trousers, and I would ask him ... quoi? ah oui ... if he wanted me as much as I desired him. Corny, but effective. He would then pay, insist on signing the bill, rather than letting me pay, charging the drinks---all of them, including the juice and I whiskey I had drunk waiting for him, and then we would walk away, out of the bar. If the fat American was still here, I would put my arm around Romain's shoulder, or back, or even on his ass, to show the oily git what I had been waiting for. A real man, a beautiful, young, sleek, handsome French banker. Not some slob from Miami who can't tuck in his shirt properly. I felt the whiskey buzz accelerate. My legs were twitching; shaking in a life of their own. But my cock was still there: straining to get out. Hard and proud and leaking with every thought of Romain, with whom, very soon, I would then take the elevator up to his room, on the twelfth floor. He wouldn't kiss me in the elevator---too corny! But he would touch my hand, lightly. Not the whole hand. Just the fingers. Three of his fingers would reach for mine, hold them briefly, then play on them: tap out a rhythm. A Chopin waltz my lover will tap on the back of my hand... then speak to me, softly, nudging maybe my ear. 'I am really glad I met you.' And his fingers would keep on tapping and caressing and pressing and dancing up my wrist and down to the tips again: I am looking forward to falling in love with you, that's what his fingers would say, and I would return the sentiment by looking into his deep eyes. I would slowly raise my left arm, and make him believe my hand was aiming for his mouth, then I would move up higher, and push a dark lock of hair from his forehead---that elegant, manly, slanted brow. No, nonsense, really. His hair was much shorter! I tried to picture him as he was, had been this afternoon at the conference, rather than let my fantasy ran amok.
The group of boisterous Japanese next to me started to get on my nerves. In the fifteen minutes since their arrival, they had each polished off a beer, and were now ordering Brandy. They smoked, and made lecherous comments about the waitresses at a restaurant where they had just eaten cheap but bad food. That's the extent to which I understood their heavy accent, but even so, their hoarse conversation intruded on my thoughts, the fantasies I was spinning, bar, whiskey in hand, waiting for my boyfriend. Yes, soon he would be that: not just a casual lover. A full-fledged boyfriend. One more Johnny Walker, and he'll be my husband.
With a 'pling' we will arrive at the twelfth floor, and as the doors swing apart, he will say, 'after you,' for he is polite, and will insist I leave the elevator first. He will pat my bum when I do, and make sure with that simple gesture that we are even-keeled lovers, equals, not master and slave, not engaged in some preposterous role play. He will put his arm around my shoulders when we walk down the aisle,---down the aisle, ha!---and when he inserts the key into the lock, no, the key card into the slot, he will pause, waiting for the light on the panel to turn green. There he will pause and turn to me, and kiss me, quickly, shyly, submissively, just to make sure that even though he was in for a romantic date, he was still the bottom, and wanted me to take him and conquer him. Yes. That's how it will be, I decided, and gulped down the whiskey, staring at the empty glass in my hand.
Just then, in the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a man passing by in the lobby. A man in dark suit, with almost imperceptibly thin blue stripes. A man with black hair, not curly, but more than wavy. A man with the smile of a god, open and winning, and so full of promise.
With the sudden shock of recognition, I sat upright, and was wide awake. Showtime. What to do? Run after him? Too desperate, out of the question. He shouldn't see me here. I sank deeper into the chair and thanked the spirits for sending me the boisterous Japanese, waving their brandies about, blocking the view with their cigarette smoke. Wait here, quietly, then call his room. Yes. Reach him in his room. Call now... leave a message. Tell him what to do. Leave my number. No, just go up, knock on his door. Too direct.
Romance. Romance! I need romance! I want to fall in love with him, not a shag in the bathroom and a slap on the bum. Not a one-night stand and a brutal good-bye. He was out long, it's past eight. Give him half an hour. He needs to settle down, change, pour a drink. Was he the type to drink alone in his room? Would he think of me, want me, long for me? Had he already hoped, in the car back here, that I would be here, waiting. Had he spent the dinner wondering if I would call? Had he regretted not getting my number too, dashing off too quickly. Or had he all but forgotten me. Call me now, yes, before he reaches the room. Leave a message, tell him to call after nine. That way, if he calls back sooner, you know he is keen. And will love you until the end of time. Rubbish. I got out my phone and redialed the hotel number. Another female voice put me through to his room. From where I was sitting, I could see her stand at the front desk and speak. It rang. No answer. Too late I remembered that their voice mail system was broken, but there it was: a computer voice picked up. This is room number 1214. Please leave a message after the tone. So not broken after all, it just hadn't picked up the last time I called.
I spoke with a measured voice, trying not to betray the emotion in my heart, my nervousness. Never been more nervous in my life. ---Hi, Romain, I stated, regretting the casual approach. I should have called him by his last name, and... no time. Recording running. ---We met today at the public procurement conference. You---theatrical pause, to stress the fact I wasn't calling him uninvited; a short 'ah' and a sigh---gave me your hotel name and room number---another pause, just in case he had forgotten me. How dared he. No, he'd been waiting for this call all day. I could sense it---I am free after nine pm. if you want to give me a call, the number is...well probably showing on your display if it's a modern machine. Just in case it isn't...
Oh, now I am really on edge. Can't think straight. How long... I hang up, sit down again, after realizing the American is staring at my groin. My fat hard cock is still glued to my thigh, and my trousers are tight enough to show it off. There... he calls for the waitress. But now he gets up. Not again. He saw my cock, now he's going for a second try. He's nervous, I can see the sweat on his brow. ---You been stood up? I quickly shake my head, and suppress an urge to wipe the sweat from my forehead. ---No, I say, with emphasis, and look him directly in the eye. Then I add, just to hurt him even more, and punish him for trying twice to pick me up, he, fat and old and oily, unworthy of a young and gorgeous thing like me, on the make, ready to... ---My boyfriend will be here at nine.
He takes it in. Still waiting for date, and calls it a boyfriend. So he can't feel rejected because I am straight, but has to blame himself for not being attractive enough. I want him to hurt. I want him to know he is old and ugly and stupid and fat and American and nothing like my suave French banker. I want him to know that I have been chosen by Romain Lavoisier, Vice President of something or other at BNP --- public procurement something. Everyone is a vice president these days, of course, but not everybody is handsome and French and gave me his number at lunch. My ploy backfires, and with a vengeance I am punished for my arrogance. Mr. Midwest America sits down, and smiles broadly, so broad and openly I am guessing he knows my deepest secrets and will now blackmail me. Before I can do anything, he has beckoned the waitress over and told her to bring his drink here. Brash and unusually agitated. What's it to him now...why isn't he going away? He tells me his name and stretches out his chubby paw---he hasn't even heard what I said. I don't take it, and glare at him. ---I'd prefer to be alone. He pretends not to hear me. The worst of the gregarious kind. ---I live in Seattle and there are quite a lot of Asians. I come here for business, computer stuff... are you in computers? He goes on and on and on there is no stopping him. I can't listen to him now. Can't pollute my ears, my brain, with his story. I must concentrate. I just sit there, staring at him in utter disbelief, at the way he is thrusting his ample self at me, insinuating himself into my life with barbaric directness. My mind races: I don't want you here, go away. I need to be alone and prepare for love.
I am saved by the phone ringing. It's barely eight thirty. ---Hello? I sound so eager, the American shuts up immediately. Then he is straining to overhear the conversation. I lean away from him, cupping my hand over the phone. ---This is Romain Lavoisier. You left a message on my phone. His name: the way he says it---I am in heaven. My cock twitches briefly. I think the American notices it. His eyes flash for a second, and then he licks his ugly, tiny, pouting lips. I see only now that he has a little mustache. That does it. A mangy gray mustache. ---Oh yes, I say, and get up, and walk away from the obnoxious Washingtonian. I keep a head over my mouth in an ineffectual attempt to make my conservation more private, and overcome the noise of the raucous Japanese. He'll know I am already here in the hotel. How embarrassing. Romain speaks slowly, and with a thick accent. His evening voice. He says, ---I just got back from a dinner. I apologize for missing your call. Oh he is a bottom alright. I am the alpha male here. Top guys don't apologize for missing a call. I will fuck him, and hard. ---I should have told you I am only free later. In fact, I should have... ah well. And you said nine, but I realized ... While he speaks the last sentence, he becomes himself aware that calling so early makes him sound rather desperate. I don't tell him I only left the message minutes earlier. I don't answer immediately. Feigned disinterest. Make him doubt that the fish has swallowed the bait. I am not on his hook. He's on mine. At last I say, ---I can meet you now if you want. Don't have to wait until nine. And before I finish, it hits me: he hasn't said anything about meeting up. I brought it up, and told him, in so many words, I don't want to wait until nine. Now who is sounding desperate? Marvelous. I recognize my own impatience, and feel my throbbing cock, and my face glow red. I am giddy and elated. I want to laugh and cry out. ---Can you come? Of course I can come. I want to come. I want to go to your hotel and hold you and kiss you. Change of scenario: we won't be meeting in the bar, you won't swipe me off my feet and take me to your room, and play with my fingers in the elevator, and kiss me while you wait for the card to unlock the door. It will be different. Quite how different, I can't know yet. I lie to him, ---I don't live far. I can be there in---quick pause, how quickly is sounding not too desperate. I want to say twenty minutes, but my cock speaks for me---ten minutes. ---Ten minutes! I can feel the joy in his voice. ---I'll be ready for you. Just come to my room. I want to say No! and shout at him, 'No! Not in the room, let's meet somewhere else, we are strangers, we have just met, if we want to fall in love, we mustn't meet in your room, we must meet in the street, the lobby, the bar, you must take me out, to a club, dancing, drinking, we must watch the moon and the stars, and slowly, inexorably, deeply, fall for each other. We can't do that in a room.
But he's hung up. He's expecting me in ten minutes. Over and out.
Now, really, showtime. I walk up to the counter and ask for the bill, which is ready in two minutes. Tapping my fingers, then signing the credit card slip, I strain to ignore the American, and leave the bar without even looking at him. I walk into the toilets just across from the elevators, hide in a stall. I pull down my pants and underwear, sit down, hold my face in my hands. Ten minutes.
I'll be in his room in ten minutes. I have wanted him for how many hours now? More than...six. For six hours I have been horny as hell, and unable to function. Impossible to get his face out of my mind. I have beaten him, flogged him, spanked him, tortured his cock and fucked his French ass for every hour of the afternoon, in my mind, and fallen in love with him, in my heart, and caressed his nape, slowly undressed him---yes, that is what I will do. This is what is going to happen:
I will knock on the door. He will answer, standing there in his immaculate suit. He will hold two glasses, pretending to have just poured the champagne. It won't be a normal hotel room, it will be a suite. He will hand me one glass and we will sit and chat for an hour, about finance, and the bank, and his life, and slowly, we will reach the subject of men, and his preferences, and his ex-boyfriends, and how he is looking for love, and how he adores Asian men. And when he gets up to refill the champagne, I will be there to meet his mouth, and kiss him tenderly, and embrace him, and hug him, and we will sit on the bed, and kiss longingly, until I ask him if he really wants a boyfriend, and love, and tenderness, and he will say yes, he craves it, no more one-night stands and no more meaningless sex acts, but love, a real relationship, and I will offer him another date. I will ask him, 'how long are you here, and shall I leave now? We can meet tomorrow, for breakfast,' and he will say that I should come to Hong Kong, and we will have a series of romantic meetings, and a vacation together, in Macao, he will say, and with his eyes, ---I will woo you, my Asian hunk. And I, with my cold and empty eyes (for I think they are expressionless) I will say, ---And I will love you! That's how it's going to happen. That's how it's going to be!
I pull up my trousers, and arrange my shirt. I step out of the cubicle and look in the mirror. Curiously, now, after so many hours of horny anticipation, after jerking off in the shower, now, finally, minutes before meeting face to face, body to body, the man I desire, my cock has finally given up. It is limp and exhausted. I am nervous as hell, so excited and agitated, I find it hard to breathe. I check my face: young, slim, chiseled. There is a tiny red spot under my eye--- a pimple in the making? I check my pulse: it is racing. I can feel the blood in my ears. I arrange my hair, the shirt collar. I look good. Too thin, I think, not enough bulk, but elegant, suave, hot. I am confident, for the two minutes I see myself in the mirror. Then, as I leave the restroom, all the confidence evaporates in an instant. I am butter again, and wobble like a teenager after his first drink, as the elevator carries me up the twelve floors.
The doors open.
A sign to the left, 1201-1216, a sign to the left 1217-1228. I turn left, realizing my error. I am so nervous, I can't read numbers. A deliberate trick of my unconscious, trying to avoid the unavoidable. I will stammer. I will look weak and feeble. He will not be attracted to me: clearly he wants a dominant man. How can I be that man, my knees giving in as I walk down. I feel the sweat on my brow, on my wrists: I rub them.
Two more doors.
The next one is ajar, just an inch.
I look down: a sock has been wedged in to keep it open.
Curious.
I step up, about to knock, but clearly, the sock is meant to give access without the formality of knocking. It has been put there on purpose, to keep the door slightly ajar. Maybe the doorbell is broken. I reach up with my hand to push the door; my fingers are trembling. I lower the hand again, trying to regain my composure. Be yourself. Be strong. Be forceful and manly. He wants a man to take care of him, not a timid wuss. I lower my voice as deep as I can, and say, ---Hello? Then I push open the door, noting the 'Do Not Disturb' sign already hanging on the knob. It is dark inside, but the light of the aisle is enough to illuminate the scene before me.
Romain is kneeling on the floor, stark naked. He has his hands behind his back. His mouth is half open. His eyes are closed.
I take it in, and after the initial surprise, I smile at him. My cock twitches; four, five times. I pick up the sock, and let the door fall shut behind me.
----------------------------- Let me know if you find errors. webmarten@gmail.com Part 3 is coming up. For more of Marten Weber, go to www.martenweber.com
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