The dreams didn't last, and we had to part: the alarm clock woke us far too early. It was I who picked up the phone for the morning call that came, like a thunderbolt in a clear sky, like a drumbeat into our twosome solitude. He pulled me closer even as I spoke to the concierge, nodding and confirming a car, for the airport, yes, waiting in twenty minutes. He was hugging me. His cock was pressing hard into my lower back. --You car will be ready in twenty minutes, I said, and could hear the sadness. I felt miserable. --It's not fair! he said; anger in his coated voice. --What? You booked your own flight...! Why did you take the early... --No, I mean, we only hug and sleep for one hour! I had to turn around to see who was speaking: had the horny monster and the cool banker suddenly been replaced by a schoolboy? His eyes were full of sleep still, half open only, but his lips were pursed and waiting to be kissed. --Do you think... he began, but did not finish. He jumped up, ran to the bathroom where I heard him piss into the bowl, then returned, straddling me on the wide bed, covering me in kisses from forehead, over my sleepy eyes, over my nose, left, right, to my chin, --Do you think, we can fuck one more time? I looked at him and smiled. --We've got twenty minutes.
In lieu of an answer, he felt behind himself, grabbed my boner, and before I could begin to adjust my position, slid down on it, quick and deep. --Oh yeah. My ass still open! --I need to piss, too, I said, an awkward sensation spreading in my groin as my hard cock was up his channel again. --You can piss later. You fuck me first! I lifted my hips. He closed his eyes and sighed. --Baby, you have the most amazing cock I ever feel inside me! I thought of something to say, but the sensation of fucking and needing to urinate completely numbed my senses. --But that is not why I... There he broke off as I thrust my prick up again. He yelped. --Ouch! Ooooh! I grabbed his waist and held him steady, then pounded away, listening as he sang like the morning birds outside. It was barely light, and still raining. After only a little while, he screamed so loud anyone in the hallway must have heard him.
The phone rang again. It was one of these things that happen in the awkwardest moments, without any reason: I reached over, expecting him to disengage, but quite the contrary: he kept bouncing up and down my shaft, and did to as I spoke to a man who--again!--confirmed that Romain's car was ready. I could not help feeling angry and hilarious at the same time. I put the receiver to Romain's ear (when his head was down)--he took it. Half gasping, half moaning, he said into the mouthpiece, --Ah! Yes! Ah! I will be down, ah! Yes! In five minutes. Ah! Oh!
I took the receiver from him, increasing the pumping, thrusting up into him, and before I could hang up completely, I came--shouted, screamed as I did, emptying myself into Romain, the very second he shot his cum over my chest and face.
We lay atop each other, glued together. A voice from the receiver said, --Hallo? Hallo? Sir? I something wrong?
Romain grabbed it and spoke--this time, no doubt with deliberate accent, --No no, do not worry! I like your 'otel very much. --Oh, thank you, Sir, said the concierge--or who ever it was. --I just 'ave 'ad ze best sex ever!
We kissed, tongues fighting slowly, while his hand tried to find the cradle.
That was all the fun I had, that was the end of it. I helped him pack, quickly, while he showered, and he gave me his breakfast voucher. I found only one sock, buttoned my shirt wrong, while he was all set to go, standing by the door already while I was still on the bed, helpless, lost. I didn't want him to leave. In the end, he told me not to go down with him. --The way you look, darling, zey vil think you are a prostitute. Go back to bed. He held the door open while he kissed me goodbye.
I watched him walk down the hallway and get into the elevator. I stared at the room key in my hand. I remember asking myself how long the key would work if he checked out now. I better take all my stuff with me when I leave for breakfast, I recall planning, in a stupor, dull and hazed and...
I found a hair in the bathroom and stared at it. I found his underwear and kept it. I picked up a glass from the nightstand--he had drunk from it.
I had nothing left of him but his smell on the sheets.
I grabbed all the pillows and the duvet, rolled them up into a human form, and hugged it, and breathed it in, and touched it--and cried.
In all the rush to leave, in all the excitement, he had left nothing: not a phone number, not a name card, not a... Oh, I could get all that from the conference handouts. Somebody would know--but that wasn't it. He hadn't said anything. He hadn't said call me.' He hadn't said I'll come back in a month.' He hadn't said `I really like you, it was great.'
He had only kissed me. Kissed me goodbye. On the cheek--not even on the mouth! And now he was gone. In a black limousine on his way to his flight ... to Hong Kong, France... I wasn't even sure. And I was alone again.
Not quite alone, as it turned out. I got dressed at eight, after a long hot shower, and went to the breakfast room. It was a Saturday, the dreaded weekend ahead of me. I made plans to go into the office to put my mind off things. And there was Harvey. Clumsy, friendly, stumbling Harvey, sitting alone by the window, now catching sight of me, and waving his hand.
--Well good morning, stranger, he said, sounding like a queen from Memphis. Did you have a good night? I think he meant it like that, did you sleep well, but the moment he said it, he realized what a night I would have had. So it came as an embarrassed afterthought when he said, --The...two of you? I nodded. Oh, I wanted to tell him everything, every detail! I wanted to shower him in all the glorious emotions I had gone through, but over me settled the silence of the sad--a weariness to speak, a painful reluctance to show my feelings. I had, after all, just been abandoned, dumped, unceremoniously, like a one-night stand. I thought of all the guys I had left the same way: cold and smug. --It was great. He is very nice. He had to leave for the airport at five. I am going to get some orange juice. --Why don't you join me here, said Harvey, when a girl with a pink hairband took the voucher from me--I didn't want to let go, it was his voucher after all--asking whether I wanted tea or coffee. --Tea please. I realized that Harvey's invitation was unnecessary. I had already made up my mind to join him. I needed company. Oh what blessing it would be to listen to the ramblings of a dull American businessman! I prayed he would talk of his computer, modems, software, whatever it was he bought or sold. I returned with muesli and juice. --Healthy, healthy! said Harvey, nodding his approval; then he looked embarrassed at his own plate of three eggs, ham, bacon, mushrooms and a large square of cheese. --Wait until I finish this, I'll have a full English like you. Harvey smiled. --I didn't get beans, he said. I don't like beans. Do you? --Love them. I made myself a promise to eat as much as I could. Now that love was gone again, what was the use in dieting? And he had liked me, even with my love-handles! Gyms are overrated--and abs. Skinny freaks... bring on the waffles! --Excuse me? --Nothing. --I thought you said bring me waffles' there for a minute. --Oh no, sorry, just thinking aloud. Why do people always say for a minute,' when clearly, the thoughts last barely seconds. --You don't seem too happy. --Well, I didn't get much sleep. Harvey pondered, visibly strained, then he got it. --Oh! I see! I smirked. --Is it the same, with men? I didn't know what he meant. --I mean, is it...the passion? I remember when I met my wife...we were at it the whole night. I shoved a big spoonful of Bircher into my mouth and replied, --Iffmuffasame, a geff. --? --It's much the same I guess. We slept for an hour maybe. --Oh! How cute he was. Every time his mind faced the image of gay sex, his cheeks turned red. I am sure he wanted to know what we did, but didn't dare ask. The question came out as awkward as could be, as if he were addressing his wife after their copulation: --And was it good for you? I laughed, almost spitting out my cereal. He realized what he had said. --Oh. Gee, I am such a goof. --Harvey, the question is, was it good for HIM. Again Harvey took five seconds to process. --Oh. I thought Asians were passive? I couldn't help laughing again. --Yes. Everybody tends to assume that. It's nonsense. --Well, I guess, said Harvey, cutting his bacon in half, it takes all kinds in this world. I watched him eat. I liked him, suddenly. He seemed irreproachably innocent. --Have you never--I mean, as a young man... have you never fooled around with guys? He shook his head vigorously. Then less vigorously. Then he took a piece of cheese drenched in egg yolk, brought it to his lips--and lowered the fork again. --Well, I am not being honest. I did have a very special friend, for a while. Nothing sexual. But...I felt very--he looked desperately for the right word, took so long I almost got up for seconds, but at last it came--tender towards him. I tried out different replies--none fitted. --We slept together once. Holding each other. On a fishing trip. In...I forgot where. His father's cabin. --But you didn't ... --No, no, no ... I couldn't have. --Couldn't have why? --Oh, because I am Christian! What an odd conviction crept from that one word; unapologetically. --So? --Well it's a sin! I just couldn't help it. I switched into attack mode: pity and anger. --Oh Harvey. Oh Harvey. Don't let that religious crap ruin your life, please! Do me a favor and stop believing that rubbish. It's all made up to fool people like you into submission. --You think so? --Think what? --That it's all made up? I mean man-made? --Of course it is, Harvey. People need to wake up and smell the Nespresso. Start thinking for themselves. Not blame god and the fucking bible or quran for all the shit in their lives.
While I spoke, I realized that I was so angry from having been dumped, after having been deserted by Romain, so early in the day, after so little affection, after just one night, just another one-night stand, I was in danger of preaching--proselytizing my own creed of resistance to dogma--and annoying my American friend. But he was cool. I stood up, got myself three eggs, four slices of bacon, lots of mushrooms, and a mountain of beans, two rolls of bread, and returned to the table. Maybe I got all the food as a peace offering, for offending him. I had no intention of eating it all. --I've often thought that, you know? He started shoveling bacon and eggs again; then chewed loudly. --Thought what? --That it's all nonsense. All that bible-preaching. It's all so full of hatred! I think that in church sometimes--we have a firebrand preacher. All smoke and brimstone. --Exactly. It makes the world worse. It creates walls and boundaries and drives people to suicide. Religion is shit, period. There is nothing to defend it, nothing reasonable. Except what you call `faith'--which is just surrender to laziness. --Well. I am not quite there, I am ... I do believe. --In what? --God. --For what? He looked at me, helpless like a little child. --I don't know. I guess I am just used to it. Brought up that way. --You see, you could have had so much fun with your buddy when you were twelve. --Eighteen. --You slept naked with a guy when you were eighteen? --Seventeen, actually. --Oh Harvey! You don't know what you missed! We laughed together, broke the ice for good, and really enjoyed our breakfast. To my surprise, I was suddenly ravenous.
--Most people, I said, much later, when we had coffee and a Danish--I really pigged out--don't take the time to examine their beliefs. They accept blindly what others tell them. Any one really thinking objectively about faith and religion, or reading the bible, must be disgusted by it. It's all about suffering, blood, violence, exclusion and hate. It's ancient and tribal and really not suited to a modern world. To a better world, and a global world. You'll be so much happier, Harvey, if you stop believing all those childish stories. He glanced at me, half fearful, half excited. American are used to having their believes re-enforced, not challenged, especially not by strangers. It's an immigrant country: people are always newcomers, always have to be polite all the time, to get along; not call each other morons. It's a country of tolerance. Isn't it?
--Are you happier then? --Happier than who? --Happier than...straight people. Normal people--I guess what I mean is, are you happier than me? Us normal, churchgoing everyday folk? --Oh Harvey, there is no such thing as normal churchgoing folk. It's an illusion, that whole majority and mainstream thing. Everybody believes they are in the majority, especially fascists. Everybody tunes into their own news channels, magazines, websites, and blocks out all the other views. Mainstream is a dream, dreamt by media executives. It doesn't exist. --I get that, but... I mean you are open and gay... --Not that open... --Well you seem pretty open to me. You are what in my neck of the woods they'd call `an alternative lifestyle.' --You see that's an insult. Alternative to what? --Oh, yes...I see. --Good. I am sorry, Harvey, we shouldn't have this discussion, I sound so belligerent. I wanted to be even more conciliatory, so I added, —I really like you! We chewed our pastries. I wanted to have a nice chat with him, not lecture him on my non-beliefs. --You haven't answered my question, he said, suddenly, putting down his coffee cup. --Which one was that? And then he said with all the emphasis, as if he really meant it--unlike the bulk of his compatriots every day, --Are you happy? Really happy, being different? I thought for a moment, licking my fingers. There was custard cream sticking to it. The image of licking Romain's cum flashed in my head, and I shook it off, physically trembling. Involuntarily, I emitted a strange sound. --You alright? --Yes, yes. --So? Are you happy? --Give me a moment. I had two choices: tell him that yes, I was liberated and religion-free, without the ballast that makes life hell for so many. I made my own rules and my own moral decisions, I chose my partners without concerns of class or money or image, and I wanted--so desperately--that people without religion could be happy and free. The other choice was to tell him the truth. The truth I had realized last night, this morning: that I was desperate for love, attention, affection. That I had waited the last years for someone to come along and hold me, touch me, wake up with me each morning with bad breath; someone to love me as I am, and not as I act, someone I could call my own, and who would do the same for me, for in this world, on this earth, the only thing that counts is binding yourself to another human, and giving up--unselfishly--all demands and pretenses. I couldn't possibly get into all that. --When's your flight? I asked. --Oh ... not until this evening. I am flying on to Hong Kong. Going to China, visiting suppliers there. Shit. A whole day to spend with Harvey, explaining why I was happy--or why I was not. —I mean, you are a very good-looking fellow. It sounded dishonest, as if he really couldn't judge, but needed to say it to cajole into honesty. I looked at him, entreating him to let me off. Not to make him tell me of my loneliness. Of my remorse--that I had for far too long gone from bar to bar, from club to club, from gay dating website to website, looking for sex and pleasure, pleasing the flesh and letting my heart wither away. That I envied straight people and their presumably more orderly lives, their stronger commitments. Everything in the gay world seemed so selfish to me, so...like Romain. The bastard. He'd seduced me, lured me into his embrace, toyed with me for a night, and then dumped me. At five in the morning! To catch a flight!
Harvey stared at me. He wouldn't let me off the hook. --Well, ARE YOU HAPPY?
Why is it so important to you, straight half-believing American computer dealer, whether I, Asian muscle top and unsuccessful banker, am happy? Should I tell you I yearn to live with a Caucasian bottom, with whom the attraction of races--that weird, inexplicable game of light versus dark, smooth versus hairy, where opposite attract--could reach their full potential? Should I tell you that most foreigners like passive Asians, indeed, and most of my Asian friends want a hunky white guy who fucks them twice a day and treats them like a woman? Should I burden you with all that nonsense--that unimportant image stuff that makes relationships hell and doesn't count at all, in the end, because two people, two men, are just that--two lonely souls, helplessly drifting, glued together by raw and violent passion? That sex doesn't mean ANYTHING, that the only thing that counts is who you hold and hug each night, and smell in your sheets. Should I tell you, Harvey, that I am tired of being gay and alone, that all my friends, my good Asian friends, are all married, and have children, and families, and that I alone am the odd one out, that I am not out and proud, that I have to lie to them, lie to them at every opportunity, tell them that I still haven't found the right girl, let them take me out on a night on the town, let them introduce me to their sisters and colleagues...? Should I tell you, you miserably innocent, you faithfully deluded American, that sometimes I think I am the loneliest person on the planet? Should I tell you, Harvey that I am so fucking lonely, so desperate for human contact, that I will dream of Romain for the rest of the year, and every time I cling to my duvet at home, will wish I was in his arms again? Should I tell you,honestly, that before your eyes, last night, I have fallen head over heels in love with a French banker who has taken my breath away? Seduced me with his mannerism, his speech, his laughter, and his smile? That I was sure I would never see him again, that I would be lonely, again, and for god knows how long--and would pick up more guys for meaningless sex, tie them up, make them beg for my big cock, say it, bottom-boy, say, please Sir can I have your cock, and then, at first light, they would leave, or I them, and return to my flat--and be alone, in cold sheets, day after day, morning after morning, with nobody to talk to even? Do you really, really, want to know all that? The depth of my despair?
--Are you crying? I heard him ask, somewhere out there. I looked up. I was crying, indeed. I sobbed: it was impossible to speak. And for the first time in my life, I didn't care if anybody noticed.
And then I saw him.
He stood in the door of the breakfast room. He had his suitcase by his side. He was looking around, searching. I raise my hand, timidly, and stood up. He saw me, came running across the room, bumping into a lady and her cheese platter, knocking over a child, yogurt tumbling to the floor, and he ran and stopped and stood before me, and threw his arms around me and hugged me so hard the breath was pushed from my lungs with one big immersive groan. I felt warmth flow into every fiber of my body. He whispered into my ear. --I cannot leave. I change my flight. Is Saturday, you know? I could think of nothing, nothing in the world to say, but to look into his eyes, and then kiss him. In front of all these stupid staring people, standing right next to Harvey--mouth open, pastry flakes all over his chin; drooling slightly.
Romain hugged me again, and again he whispered. --I am starving. I will have breakfast, here, OK? I nodded. I sat down, and watched him stow his suitcase, and walk towards the buffet.
Harvey said, --I thought he...? I shrugged my shoulders. I had tears in my eyes, lots of them--I felt them running down my cheeks. I looked at him, my French lover. Slowly, very slowly, I realized what had happened: he had gone to the airport, and returned--for me. H had postponed, put his life on hold, to be with me. I felt the blood flush through my cheeks, my cock rise, my legs shake and my lips quaver. I opened my eyes, then wiped my face with both hands. I became acutely aware of my public shame--everyone was looking at me sobbing. For an Asian that's...death. Yet I felt strangely alive.
--Oh, Harvey? I looked at the obese American. His face was one big question mark. --Yes? --In answer to your question ... --Huh? --Your question... --Oh, yes?
--I am perfectly happy.
THE END. Copyright 2011 by Marten Weber. Visit www.martenweber.com if you want to read more, or check the nifty archives. All your feedback and criticism much appreciated. My editor is still on vacation, so if you do find typos and errors, please drop me a line. webmarten@gmail.com