Single Malt

Single Malt copyright 2013 Seth Kirkcauldy seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net

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Colin McIntyre was freezing his arse off. And it was his 'arse' and not his 'ass' because he was hunched in the April cold of Edinburgh, Scotland wearing a kilt. The bitter wind was sticking its icy hand up his thighs to answer for itself the age-old question of what exactly those crazy Scotsmen wore under there. Colin feared the inquiry might result in frostbite.

He was actually an American, but with a Scottish name wearing Scottish formal dress in a Scottish city, having just attended a Scottish wedding rehearsal. And, by God, he was going to stop at a pub and get some true Scottish whisky before he slid another step in the soggy muck of this city. His prosthesis was having trouble getting traction and he was a mere step or two away from ending upside down in the street showing the world his naughty bits.

It was bad enough that the people stared at him openly as he slid down the street wearing a kilt and his prosthetic blade leg; he needn't compound that by kicking it over his ears like a Friday night whore. So he grabbed the door to the very first pub he came to on George Street, a green and gilt affair that looked stately and presentable and - PLEASE God - warm, yanked it open with a strong arm, and entered.

It was much smaller inside than it appeared on the street, as if it were some sort of animal that puffed itself up to threaten off danger. Ten tables - if he was generous - were scattered around the dark interior, but this left room for a billiard table and the ubiquitous dartboard. The bar itself was a monstrous thing, hewn from solid mahogany. In fact, all the wood in the pub was dark, as were the walls and the floor. The lights were muted by both the frugal nature of the proprietor (it seemed only about half the fixtures had bulbs), and the dark shades that covered them.

It fell to the bartender, then, to light the room, and he did it almost solely with his wild flame-red hair. To look at him was to immediately recall the legends of the northern highland barbarians. He must have weighed two hundred and fifty pounds - Colin had no idea how to convert that to stone or to kilograms -and had green eyes the color of absinthe. He was not handsome by any modern definition, but he was certainly compelling in the way of mad dogs and berserkers.

"Welcome then, laddie. What whisky wannae ye?"

Not "what can I get you?" noted Colin, but "what whisky wannae ye?" This was exactly the pub he wanted.

"I'm an American," Colin admitted, swiping the damp from his formal jacket and kilt. His horsehair sporran made him look as if he had a goatee on his crotch, coated with hoarfrost. He knocked some of the icy water off of it. "I don't know my scotch, I'm afraid. What do you recommend?"

The five men scattered around the bar who had watched his arrival with interest seemed suddenly to find all their attention taken by the small glasses of amber liquid in front of them. Colin could feel their embarrassment for him.

"Ye've but one leg, laddie!" The bartender suddenly roared, as if he was discovering something Colin did not know, and, as if, it somehow explained why he knew nothing about the national drink.

"Yes," said Colin, at a loss. He dropped upon a bar stool wearily. God, it had been a long day. Wedding rehearsals were a punishment to all good, godly men; and he wasn't even either one of those.

The bartender settled himself directly across from Colin and propped his elbow upon the bar and his chin upon his palm, and looked at Colin expectantly. "Let's 'av it, then."

"Have what?"

"The tale of the one-legged American, o'course," the bartender looked at him expectantly - and a bit pityingly - as if he were addled and had trouble with language.

Colin felt his eyes harden and his back straighten. He was not a man to be pitied. He owed the men in this bar nothing, yet he deigned to answer by merely spitting out the word, "Afghanistan."

Everything changed. The other men in the bar once again swung their gazes to look at him, and the humor in the bartender's green eyes died down to become something else entirely. He nodded once, turned to the shelves behind him and selected a bottle.

Colin thought he heard one of the other men gasp.

"This be Macallan Speymalt. It's older than ye are," the bartender said softly, pouring a gold liquid into a small, rounded glass.

"I'm 28," replied Colin.

The bartender met his eyes kindly, and pushed the glass toward him. "It's older than ye are," he said.

Colin picked up the glass and sniffed it self-consciously. It wasn't wine; he wasn't sure if he was supposed to smell it this way, but the bartender seemed to be looking at him with approval. He sniffed it again. The vapors of the alcohol were much mellower than he expected. He'd had whisky before, but that experiment ended in him hacking and coughing from the choking effect of the alcohol burn. This though, this didn't burn his nose at all. He thought that he smelled... no, he was sure that he smelled...

"Smoke," he said quietly. And all the men in the bar sighed and murmured.

"Aye," said the bartender reverently.

Colin met his eye while he took his first sip; the light green of the bartender's gaze seemed to go wide with expectation. Colin rolled the liquid on his tongue, felt it coat it lightly before he swallowed, leaving a pleasant warm trail down his throat. When he opened his mouth and let the air in, his taste buds exploded with information. First, he tasted a green, mulchy flavor...

"Peat," said the bartender knowingly.

And then sweet, golden flavors like honey...

"Mead," the bartender nodded, watching his face carefully.

And then, dear God...

"Everything else," the bartender grinned with glee.

Colin threw back his head and looked at the pressed-tin ceiling, mostly to hide his gaze from the bartender. He felt so vulnerable all the sudden, and didn't like that everything was so easily read upon his face. But the scotch...

"That's amazing," he whispered to the ceiling, bizarrely aware that tears were welling in his eyes.

"Aye," replied the bartender gruffly, "and so is a proper warrior, Mr. McIntyre. Ye enjoy the whisky."

Colin snapped his eyes back to the man, his forehead creased in confusion. "How do you know my name?" He demanded.

"Tartan," the bartender replied respectfully, gesturing to the kilt Colin wore. "Ye wear yer family proud, laddie."

Colin nodded. Of course, the tartan; how stupid to forget he was wearing it and that some here would know what it meant.

"LEAVE 'IM BE!" The bartender roared suddenly, and Colin jumped. He now saw that a man had come up beside him, but the gentleman quickly retreated in the wake of the bartender's outburst.

Colin turned back to the barkeep to find him calmly wiping down the mahogany top with a white rag. He glanced up at Colin ruefully, his hair wild and his gaze crazy.

"He were gonna offer ye a blowjob fer yer whisky."

"I..." That was all Colin could say. His mouth stayed open, but no other words came out. The bartender grinned at him.

"Dinnae think ye'd be interested. But if ye are, any 'o the others would do it gladly without yer whisky."

"I... oh."

The bartender chuckled warmly. "Naught will bother ye now, laddie. Drink yer whisky, eh?"

The door opened and another man entered, bringing with him a wicked breeze that shot straight up Colin's kilt and caressed his balls. He hissed in discomfort and resisted the temptation to cross his legs like a schoolgirl. The bartender laughed knowingly and set an empty glass in front of the stool next to Colin's and poured out a measure from another bottle.

"Ian," he said in welcome. The slight man was bundled in a woolen black overcoat, and he unbuttoned it with one hand while he reached for his drink with the other. It was only after he took an appreciative sip and rolled it around his tongue that he sat on the stool and nodded to both the barkeep and Colin. Then he did a double take at Colin before forcing his attention back to the bartender.

"Fergus," he said in greeting.

The bartender scowled. "'Tis not 'Fergus', I keep tellin' ye."

"But you won't tell me what it is," said Ian reasonably, "so I shall call you 'Fergus' until you do."

Colin grinned despite himself. "You DO look like a Fergus," he said to the bartender.

"That's racism," said the bartender grumpily.

"I wouldn't know anything about that," said Ian flatly. He was clearly of Pakistani descent, with handsome brown skin, dark eyes and glossy black hair. He spoke in a lilting British accent.

Colin wondered if the racism Ian faced was born of the fact that he was Pakistani, or British. He took another small sip of his whisky, aware that every man but Ian was watching him drink. Ian seemed to realize the same thing, and brushed Colin with his elbow.

"Which is that?"

Colin shrugged. "Macallan Speymalt. I only know it's older than me."

Ian swiveled his head and looked at the man whose name was not Fergus. "Bastard."

The bartender grinned and turned away to go fill up one of the glasses at a table in a dark corner.

"It's not easy to gain Fergus' respect, especially for an American like yourself. Congratulations," Ian said to him.

Colin shrugged again. "I don't really care if he respects me or not."

Ian's eyes widened and he grinned. "Oh. You are VERY American, aren't you?"

They were silent then, each sipping his scotch slowly.

"Men in kilts are very popular in this bar," Ian suddenly said carefully.

"I've come to realize," Colin replied with a rueful grin. He looked at Ian out of the corner of his eye.

He found the man to be beautiful; there was no getting around that. He wondered if it was because he knew that he was likely a gay man, or if he would have noticed it otherwise. Ian didn't look feminine, even with the long, curly black hair and his slight build; his dark, stubbled face and sharp, angular body ensured a masculine edge to him.

"What puts an American into a kilt?"

Colin liked his voice too. It was unexpectedly deep coming from a man of that stature. He probably stood at five feet seven, a good five or six inches shorter than Colin, and everything Colin could see was in perfect proportion to that size. All except his eyes and his voice; they both belonged on a giant.

"Family does. A wedding. What do you do?" Colin asked.

"Professor at the University of Edinburg. I try to educate the Scots. BLOODY HARD WORK," he purposefully said the last bit loud enough to be heard by Fergus. It earned him a rude gesture. "And what about you, when you're not out torturing gay men in the bars?"

Colin squirmed uneasily on his stool. "Unemployed. I just recently finished my therapy for my leg, and I've not yet figured out what I want to do."

"I can't imagine going through that again. Wasn't it bad enough we had to figure it out the first time through?"

Colin grinned in appreciation. "That's it exactly," he said, "I'm twenty-eight and suddenly trying to figure out my fucking major."

Their conversation meandered comfortably from that starting point. Colin told Ian all about life in the military and Ian shared many stories regarding the hazards of instructing Scotsmen. Colin had to agree there was considerably more peril involved in professorship than he realized. Ian was particularly animated when telling of all the sheep that had been locked in his office.

"Where did your students get all the sheep?"

"Scotland has over 3 sheep for every person. They have so many, they dress some of them up and make them tend bar."

"Feck ye!" Fergus said without heat from across the bar.

"Sorry, Colin. I'd forgotten that Fergus starts talking about fucking the moment I mention sheep."

Ian smiled a lot, Colin noticed; and it made him realize that he had not been around a truly happy person in a long time.

"Do you mind if I ask about your leg? I'd entirely understand if you're exhausted by the question."

Colin looked up to find Ian looking at him intently. His eyes were dark, raven pools; but they were warmed and softened by long, dark lashes. The expression on his face was open and friendly, clearly trying not to cause offense.

Colin had been dealing with questions about his leg all day long; most of them were from bored bridesmaids who were afraid they'd be paired with him and expected to dance. No one had asked with just a desire to hear his story. In fact, in the past two years, few people had looked at him the way this man was looking at him now.

He shook his head. "I don't mind," he surprised himself by saying. In fact, he felt somewhat grateful for the interest from someone who was not worried how his tragedy was going to affect them.

"Marine Sergeant Colin McIntyre, 1st Battalion, 11th Marines, 1st Marine Division out of Camp Pendleton, California," Colin said all in a long breath. He paused for a time after that. The pub was completely silent; everyone in it was listening to him again. Fergus finished another refill and returned behind the bar.

"Or, I was," Colin amended. Then immediately: "I'm still a marine, of course... because we always are... but... well, obviously no longer active." He looked down at his drink.

He didn't say anything for so long that Ian finally nudged him gently. With the movement, Colin smelled a calming scent like sandalwood or balsa. It was probably Ian's soap.

"Was it an IED?" The man prompted softly.

"No." Colin rubbed his face with his hands, scrubbing a memory from it. "No, it was not. It was a grenade launcher."

He sipped his whisky again, but was now too preoccupied in his head to taste it properly.

"On May 7, 2011 in the Battle of Kandahar, I was one of very few Americans who were assisting the Afghan National Police against the Taliban Insurgents."

"That was the week bin Laden was killed," Ian said.

Colin nodded. "It was. I was at the governor's office in Kandahar when it was attacked by about a hundred Taliban soldiers with rocket propelled grenades. They were trying to avenge the killing of Osama bin Laden."

He took another sip of whisky, and then looked up to find those dark eyes watching him. It sounded so odd to hear his own voice reduce the biggest drama of his life to a sound bite like that. It lacked all the details of sight and sound and... terror.

"I'm sorry," Ian said.

Colin shrugged. "It was my job," he looked into his now-empty glass. "It was the loss of my wife that was harder, to be honest."

Fergus, on the other side of the bar, reacted to this comment by straightening his spine and allowing his green eyes to settle on Colin, "She left ye, did she?"

Colin sighed, "She was never really able to cope with it. She never signed up for that..."

"Fecking cunt!" Fergus grunted.

"No. No..." Colin demurred. "She married a whole man, and I..."

"Bitch," Ian agreed, watching Colin's face closely. "I'll buy you another Macallan if you'd like it," he offered quietly.

"I'll pitch in," said an old voice from the dark of the pub.

"Me too," joined another.

For the second time that evening, Colin felt the disorienting sting of tears in his eyes.

"No," he said gruffly. "No thank you. I think I should be going now." He looked around him to gather his things and realized he had nothing with him.

He glanced at Fergus. "H-h-how much do I owe you?"

Fergus glared at him, insulted. "Get yer hero arse outta here, laddie."

Colin nodded. "Well, thank you. It was a pleasure."

He rooted through his sporran and pulled out some money which he left atop the bar as a tip. He pushed off his stool and walked to the door.

He glanced back with his hand on the door handle and found both Fergus and Ian watching him closely.

Ian raised his hand. "Good night."

Colin nodded again and left.

The miserable weather had continued unabated during his respite in the bar, and it returned to its rude handling of Colin immediately. He wrapped his arms around his chest and made his way carefully through the remaining three blocks to his hotel room, slipping occasionally when his prosthesis failed to gain proper traction.

He pushed his way into the old lobby of his building, grunted a greeting to the plain woman who ran the place, and climbed the three flights of stairs to his cubicle. Technically, it was a room; but unlike any hotel room he'd ever rented in the States, this one was barely big enough for the bed that was in it. The door opened inward, and ran into the corner of the bed prior to reaching the halfway point. Colin had to squeeze his broad shoulders through the narrowed opening and then sit immediately upon the mattress; there was no room for him to stand.

The only other piece of furniture was a two drawer dresser; but the bottom drawer could not be opened because it was blocked by the mattress. Half of Colin's belongings were stuffed into the top drawer, and the remainder in the small suitcase perched atop the bureau.

The bathroom was down the hall and was shared by two other rooms on the floor. The best that could be said about his accommodations was that they were affordable; something that was currently very important.

Colin sat for a long moment looking at the four, unadorned white walls. He had grown accustomed to the unabated melancholia over the past two years, but this sense of restlessness within him was something new. He knew it was normal to still be in mourning over his losses; they were significant. His leg, his career, his wife, his pride; they were all irretrievable and he was supposed to replace them with other things. A prosthetic career and a prosthetic pride, he presumed.

He sighed and set about unlatching his leg and removing his stump from the socket. He had walked too much that day and it was chafing. He fished the lotion out of his open suitcase and rubbed it into the red, irritated skin. He knew he was merely delaying the moment in which he would lay in the dark and feel his leg and his wife still there, the phantom limbs that his body could not forget.

It had been over two years since anyone had touched him, and his flesh was starving for it. As he rubbed his sore leg gently, his skin drank up the lotion as if it was kindness. In his mind's eye it was Ian's long, brown fingers that he was picturing. He was very attracted to the professor, and he found that more amusing than dismaying.

The wedding the next day was very much like the weather: it may have been the way of nature, but it made Colin miserable. His cousin, Andrew, tried to make Colin feel as welcome as possible, but he had other priorities that day. Andrew's bride, on the other hand, was cold and distant, just as she had been during the rehearsal the prior evening. Colin wasn't sure what he might have done to offend her but suspected she resented the way he ruined the pictures of the wedding party.

He briefly wondered how she'd feel if he drew his Sgian Dubh and plunged it into his heart while she was saying her vows.

But in the end, the ceremony was grand, and the dinner authentic.

"She made me agree to the haggis," Andrew whispered confidentially to Colin. "Is all of married life doing things you hate so that you can get laid?"

Colin winced at the cynicism. Luckily, he knew his cousin well enough to know he was truly in love; but then he would have to be to agree to haggis.

"I'm not sure I'm the one to ask about married life," he replied, trying hard to not sound bitter.

Andrew clapped his shoulder in a manly dismissal and went to say shallow things to other guests; so Colin wandered over to the bar and greeted the bartender. He ended up leaving empty-handed when he discovered there was no scotch on offer. He found it was the only thing that interested him that day.

"He could have just declined," a bridesmaid was saying to someone as he was passing behind her table. "Obviously they asked him out of some sense of family obligation. The polite thing to do was just decline. Anna doesn't even know him that well, and he ruined the whole wedding by showing off his wounds in that kilt. Anna says he does it for attention."

"He's divorced?" The friend enquired.

"Yes, can you imagine his poor wife? It all must have been very hard on her."

Colin was glad he didn't have a glass of liquor in his hand, as it was shaking so badly he was sure he would drop it. He made his way to an empty table so that he could sit in peace and watch all the people enjoying themselves. Their happiness seemed to go on forever.

"Here's tae us!" Fergus was shouting as Colin pushed open the door. The bartender's hair was flying about his head in a scarlet nimbus, and one of his massive hands was holding a dram of whisky high in the air.

"Wha's like us?" The others in the bar roared back at him.

"Gey few, and they're a' deid," Fergus responded, and downed his drink in a single gulp. Then his wild viridian eyes caught sight of Colin.

"Sergeant McIntyre!" He boomed with pleasure. He grabbed a clean glass and set it on the bar and then turned to the shelves behind him.

"I'm paying my own way tonight, Fergus!" Colin called to him. "Something affordable, please."

"Pffft," said Fergus in disappointment. "As ye will. And my name is no' Fergus."

"What IS your name, then?"

The barkeep looked at him flatly. "Fergus'll do, I s'pose."

He poured an amber liquid into Colin's glass and pushed it toward the American as he took his seat.

Colin put his nose above the rim and tested the aroma carefully: more of the peat and smoke, but stronger and less refined.

"Laphroaig," Fergus told him. "Tis fine quality, but not an auld Macallan."

"Thank you," Colin murmured, looking around the pub.

"He'll be in again. Been in twice already to see if ye were here."

Colin felt his heart speed up. "Oh? What? Who's that?"

The bartender smirked. "The bonny Ian, o'course. He damn near wept when ye left yesterday. Fecking Englishman."

The last bit seemed to be out of habit rather than conviction, but it was really the thought of Ian that was tugging the corners of Colin's lips into a smile. He hadn't realized how much he hoped he might see him.

"A kilt again, laddie? Yer pressin' yer luck in here. I cannae hold 'em back forever with you showin' off all yer bonny bits."

"Wedding," Colin replied in explanation.

"Och! Who's the sap, eh?"

"My cousin, Andrew."

"Sorry 'e deid, then, laddie. That's a sad, sad thing."

Colin coughed a laugh, and hid his smile while he wiped his lips. Fergus grinned unrepentantly and went to fill a glass, but then abruptly turned and faced the door when it opened.

"Ian!" He greeted loudly, and he glanced at Colin with a smile.

"Hello Fergus! Hello Colin." He settled on the stool next to Colin, removing his big overcoat while the bartender poured him an unordered drink. Ian was dressed in tight black slacks and a white shirt; they hugged his small form beautifully.

"'Tis nice tae see ye fer the third time today," Fergus said undiplomatically.

Ian blushed and quickly glanced away from Colin. His discomfiture was charming.

"I didn't think you'd come back," Ian suddenly said, turning back quickly to the American, almost in accusation.

Colin gestured at his clothes. "I had the wedding today. It took forever."

"Well, congratulations, then," Ian returned with a smile. "Who's the lucky girl?"

This time Colin blushed stupidly, and he found himself embarrassed that he was embarrassed. "Not my wedding; my cousin's."

"Ahh. Good. I had hoped."

Without saying more about that, Ian took a sip of his whisky.

"Hoped what?"

Ian carefully set down his glass and turned to face Colin squarely. He spoke like a man who had spent a full night regretting he hadn't spoken before. His voice was so soft that Colin had to lean toward him to catch the words.

"I hoped you liked me. I hoped you'd remember me and come back to get me." He shrugged. "I guess I hoped the handsome prince would invite me up to his grand castle suite on the top of Arthur's Seat and fuck me until morning."

All the air rushed out of Colin's lungs and he almost fell off his stool. His prosthesis kicked the bar loudly. He regained his balance awkwardly and then looked falteringly into the dark-eyed gaze of his companion.

"My 'suite' is about the size of a postage stamp," he muttered back. "And if 'Arthur's Seat' is the name of a ghetto, then yeah, that's where my postage stamp is located."

Ian snorted and a grin lifted his full lips. He was truly the most beautiful man that Colin had ever seen. "You're saying you don't want to fuck me?"

Colin's teeth clacked nervously. "I... I just... I've never, you know - with a man? I guess I've known I might like it, but I haven't... And since my leg... I've just not... I'm not sure what to do."

Ian looked at him appraisingly and quickly said, "I know what to do." He dropped some money on the bar, grabbed Colin's hand, and pulled him toward the door.

"G'night, laddie!" Fergus said loudly, but his amused voice was cut off by the noise of the busy street.

"Lead the way to the postage stamp?" Ian requested, and Colin nodded once and started off, head down against the wind. He found himself sweating even under the assault of the cold air. He wasn't sure he'd ever been so nervous.

It was only a quarter of an hour before they arrived, pushing into the lobby. Not even the proprietor was around this time. Colin reached out for Ian's hand and led him up the stairs. The touch of fingers entwined with his own was almost enough for the whole night. Even if Ian fled, Colin would remember this feeling of their fingers dancing together.

Ian laughed when he saw the room - laughed HARD - but it did not embarrass Colin. It was such honest humor that Colin looked at him sheepishly, but was too busy watching the lines of happiness on the man's face to feel badly. They both settled onto the bed immediately, because there was no other place for them to go. Ian was still laughing.

"Is it too small for you?" Colin asked with a completely straight face, but with all the innuendo he could muster.

Ian dissolved into laughter. He snorted charmingly and pitched himself back on the bed, covering his face.

Colin pulled his hands away, "I want to see you. Please."

The laughter evaporated almost immediately. "Take off your leg, Colin, please. I'll work on your clothes." Ian immediately set to unbuttoning the formal jacket above the kilt.

"My leg...?"

"Just you, Colin. I just want you."

Colin went completely still and then rubbed the palms of his hands in his eyes to stop the burn that those words put there. He was momentarily unsure what to do, but then realized he needed to do whatever the fuck he was asked. He sat up and started to take off his leg, his hands shaking.

He removed his stump carefully from the socket and then handed the prosthesis off to Ian.

"Would you mind standing it in the corner? It's the only place it'll fit unless you want us to sleep with it."

Ian smiled at this and took the leg, propping it in the corner by the chest of drawers. Then he returned his attention to Colin who was sitting up and removing his shirt and jacket.

"Wow," Ian whispered.

Colin's body was strongly muscled. His chest and arms were well-developed and kept fit. His chest was lightly dusted in dark hairs that matched what was on his head. From the look in Ian's eye, he approved greatly.

"Could I touch you?" Ian asked, his hand trembling slightly as it reached toward him.

"God, yes," Colin replied, hungrily anticipating the touch of other skin against his.

Ian brushed his fingers against Colin's nipple.

"Holy hell!" Colin yelped, scaring them both so they jumped. "Shit, I'm sorry. That's cold."

Ian sat looking at him startled for just a moment, and then started laughing again.

"I'm sorry," he managed to say around his laughter. "I should have thought. It's very cold out and I don't have gloves."

Colin had his eyes squeezed shut against the awkwardness he'd just created, and then grabbed Ian's hand and put it back on his chest. "Please. Please touch me."

"Oh," Ian said, letting out all his breath with that word. Colin pressed Ian's hand against the muscular mound of his chest. Together, they felt his heart beating. Colin slid Ian's hand slowly over his skin in a slow discovery. Their gazes crossed and caught, and they both noted the immediate increase in Colin's heart rate.

Ian smiled rather wistfully. "Mine's doing that too," he said. "Just so you know."

"Show me," Colin demanded, eyes raking at Ian's clothes.

Ian nodded. "You finish, too. Can you get out of that kilt yourself?"

Colin deftly flipped something in the back at his waist and then unwound the kilt slightly and slid it off. It took him about five seconds to be gloriously naked. Ian's mouth dropped open for several reasons.

"I am so glad I didn't know you could do that back in the bar," he finally said huskily. "Fuck, look at you. You're beautiful."

"What's left of me..." Colin said, and then realized he sounded bitter and shook his head to negate it. "I'm sorry..."

"You're beautiful," Ian repeated wonderingly. The expression on his face left no doubt that he meant it.

"Strip, Man!" Colin hissed, and Ian set immediately to obey.

Colin had seen many men undress; from locker rooms to military barracks, he had been around a lot of naked men's bodies. He'd always known he appreciated the aesthetic, he'd wondered on occasion if he was bisexual; but he'd always had relationships with women, and he was always faithful in those relationships. In his fantasies though, when he was alone and stoking himself, his mind sometimes wandered to the male side of the street.

He had never, however, seen a man undress specifically for him. He had never had a man staring openly at his sprawled body while he peeled off his shirt and unzipped his pants. Ian didn't tease Colin on purpose, but the result of the slowly-bared skin was the same. Colin couldn't wait to touch him and was going crazy with need.

Ian was formed perfectly; his compact body was built of long, toned muscles, the exact opposite of Colin's bulk. His skin was the copper and bronze tones of a deep, deep suntan. His black silky hair was in long ringlets that reached his shoulders, and Colin's fingers twitched to bury themselves in it. His chest was mostly smooth save for a dark trail that started between his pectorals and ran straight to his pubes, bisecting him perfectly. The thatch between his legs was also so black it glistened, and his cock poked straight out at Colin. It was in proportion to the rest of Ian, which made it considerably smaller than Colin's own. Colin felt himself smiling openly at the suddenly self-conscious and beautiful university professor.

He met his eye, and then dropped his gaze slowly until it rested on his own cock which was standing up in his lap and leaking precum. He looked again at Ian. "I don't think this is going to be a problem," he said confidently.

Ian laughed and then crawled over his sprawled limbs and lay on top of him, all of his skin pressing against all of Colin's. Colin groaned in relief, and then Ian bent and kissed him.

Colin's mind went blank with shock. He didn't retreat, nor did he fumble, he just took a moment to get his bearings. For some reason he had never, not once, considered kissing a man. He just hadn't thought about it, but he found himself thinking about it now.

Ian's mouth was gentle and soft on his own, their lips touching hesitantly. Then the tip of his tongue peeked out and Colin's mouth opened to accept it. He stopped thinking after that. He groaned deeply, relishing all of the warm skin against his own and the clever, wet mouth on his. He sucked Ian's tongue for just a moment before backing away to whisper, "you taste like scotch."

"I'd rather taste like American," Ian whispered in his ear, nipping it playfully and then capturing his mouth for another kiss. Colin groaned again.

Their bodies were aligned so that Ian's cock rubbed along Colin's as his lithe body undulated on top of him. Both of them provided plenty of natural lubricant to aid that silky sliding of one against the other. They were moaning into each other's mouths when Colin let his hands dance along Ian's spine until they cupped the perfect mounds of his ass. He pulled him tightly against him and ground their bodies together.

Colin suddenly released the pressure and stilled.

"Please!" Ian hissed. "Please do that again."

"I can't," Colin chuckled, embarrassed. "It's been a very long time, Ian. I can't last. You feel too good. I'll pop in a short second."

Ian pushed himself back from Colin, supporting himself with his arms on the bed. He looked at him shyly, but still in the eye.

"Can I stay the night?" He asked. "Do you mind if I stay here with you?"

"Of course. There's plenty of room," Colin gestured expansively, making Ian laugh again. God that felt good against his body. "I hoped you would stay, actually. I - I have to leave in the morning, though. I have a flight back home."

"Oh."

"I know," Colin whispered, closing his eyes against the look on Ian's face. "I know."

Ian dipped and brushed Colin's lips with his own. "But I can stay?"

"Yes."

"Then don't worry about going quickly. Enjoy yourself. If it's okay with you, we'll do it twelve or fifteen more times before your flight leaves."

Colin laughed again but grabbed the back of Ian's head with one hand and his ass with the other and then ground both his mouth and his crotch into the man. He devoured his lips while he thrust his cock hard and fast against Ian's.

They smiled against each other, licking and nipping while their bodies warmed to the point they started sweating and sliding. It was bliss after being so cold, for Colin to feel warmth that seeped right inside him. His breath was coming in short gasps, and when he did gulp down a sip of air, it came directly from Ian's lungs. He thought it amazing to be so close with someone that they shared breath.

Ian was grunting along with him, refusing to be left behind, and when Colin's muscles all contracted in the painful ecstasy of relief, Ian was only a few thrusts behind him before his own semen was jetting between their bodies. They continued to squirm against each other, fighting to get closer while their bodies wracked with spasms of pleasure. Their kisses turned to slow, leisurely open-mouthed affairs that seemed more like an intimate conversation of moans and grunts.

Colin finally pulled back to hold Ian's face and touch their foreheads. "Thank you, thank you, ohmyfuckinggod thank you." He kissed him. He kissed him again. "I've never kissed a man before in my life."

Ian smiled in pleasure. "You're very good at it."

"Do you need food?" Colin suddenly asked him. "I ate at the wedding, but I never thought..."

"I'm fine. Please. You leave in the morning; I don't want to move from this spot."

Colin slid their bodies together again and sighed. "Guy sex is messy, isn't it?"

"It really, really, is," Ian laughed, closing his long eyelashes.

Colin reached over and grabbed his discarded kilt and started to mop them up.

"Uhg! That was a bad choice," he said in disgust. "A wool cum rag; God, that's gross."

Ian shook with laughter. "I can't remember when I've enjoyed someone so much," he said. "You're sure you have to go back to the States? I thought you said you have no job yet."

"I have to go," he said morosely. "I can't really afford to pay the fees to change my ticket; and besides, I have to go back and find a job; it's becoming a priority."

"I won't mention it again," Ian said softly. "I just wanted you to know that I'd like it. If you stayed."

Colin nodded and kissed him again. "You know any other guy tricks? I liked that first one."

Ian laughed again and dove between Colin's legs, using his tongue to clean some remaining semen from the hairs there. Then he dipped his head and lazily licked at Colin's heavy scrotum. He twisted his tongue around the sac and lapped at it very slowly and sensuously. Colin's soft, satisfied cock lay upon his cheek while he licked leisurely at his American friend.

"Ahhhh, God, that feels nice, Ian." Colin finally did what he'd wanted to do for two days and buried both his hands into that luxurious black hair. It was as soft and silky as he expected.

They lay there together like that, licking and petting slowly for long comfortable minutes while their bodies recovered from the first round of pleasure. Ian let the warm, soft cock slide off his cheek and lifted himself and patted Colin's thigh.

"Roll over."

"What?"

"Guy trick," he winked. Colin swallowed his sudden nervousness and rolled onto his stomach.

Ian's fluttering tongue actually started on the back of his balls, right where it had been a few moments before. Colin sighed into his pillow at the taunting touch. Ian's hands were lightly rubbing the globes of his ass while his tongue slowly traveled the trail up from his balls to his hole, swirling and teasing the entire way. Colin groaned aloud at the first touch of tongue on his asshole; it almost tickled, but in the most amazing way he'd ever felt. It was just the gentlest of flutters, a caress. Then it was Ian's lips pressed there, brushing against him in a kiss; and the image of that in Colin's mind is what hardened his cock beneath him.

The kiss turned to very gentle suction, and Ian's tongue plunged deep inside him.

"Holy Hell!" Colin gasped, arching his back off the bed. The movement pulled him away from Ian's face, and so he immediately pushed back again anxiously, "Ian, please do that again."

Ian chuckled while his tongue snaked back inside, and the vibration caused a spasm of pleasure to arc across the vibrating muscles in Colin's lower back. He had never felt anything like this before. This was a very, very good guy trick.

"Awwwwwww," he groaned in a long exhalation. Ian's tongue was slowly wriggling in and out of his body. It was mind-blowing how good that felt. He'd had no idea at all. He was unconsciously thrusting his hips, grinding his cock into the sheets, and then grinding his ass back against Ian's chin. It was amazing.

He forced himself to stop and twisted himself over on his back again. Ian looked up at him with a cocked eyebrow and Colin slung an arm over his eyes in embarrassment.

"I feel like a teenager, Ian. I swear to God I'm going to cum again if you keep doing that. I'm sorry."

"I could do that to you forever, Colin. Even after you've gone off. I'm not going anywhere; I'll pleasure you as long as you like."

Colin's chest tightened at that, and he was about to turn back over when he felt a gentle lick on the head of his cock. Then another.

"Oh," he managed to say. And Ian proceeded to demonstrate his skill in bringing pleasure without tipping Colin over the edge. Using just his tongue, he licked the shaft until it was shiny with saliva, causing Colin's thigh muscles to quiver. Even his shortened leg was bunching and releasing with knotted muscles. Occasionally that talented mouth would brush the sensitive head, causing Colin to jerk and groan, but then it would be back on the shaft only, teasing him relentlessly.

Finally, after edging Colin for what seemed forever, Ian slipped his lips over the head and descended slowly, not stopping until his lips were buried in Colin's short, curly hairs. He stayed there for a long moment squeezing but not moving.

"Holy Hell," Colin murmured. "I can't believe you can do that. Oh, holy hell, that feels incredible."

He expected Ian to start sliding up and down on the top half of it; that's the way all blowjobs he'd had to date had gone. And maybe with his hand massaging his balls and base of the shaft; that always felt nice.

But that's not what Ian did. With Colin's large cock embedded fully in his throat, he slowly twisted his head back and forth and used his swallowing muscles to constrict and release him rhythmically. Colin realized immediately that this was the end for him; he couldn't last ten more seconds.

The pleasure of this movement tightened his balls so that they felt like they were being squeezed in a vice. His muscles grew taut, clenching and releasing; and his hands started flailing against the sheets while his head tossed around with eyes closed. He shoved his hips upward in a final attempt to get even deeper, and gasped out a warning to Ian.

The warning caused Ian to start swiveling his tongue all around the captive flesh while squeezing even harder.

Colin erupted deep into Ian's throat, blasting his load to paint his lower esophagus. Ian never let him pull out the slightest, but kept his head down and his throat muscles milking his cock. Colin yelled aloud with the force of his climax, his whole body pulsating with orgasmic convulsions. Ian slid upwards for a gasp of air, and then quickly returned down to his deep hold on Colin's cock.

And once again he stayed there, constricting slowly while Colin's body shivered beneath him.

Colin's panting filled the small room, and his broad chest rose and fell, beads of sweat rolling down his abdomen. Ian finally came up for another breath. He released the turgid cock from his lips, but held it gently in his hands and placed kisses on the circumcised head. It flexed in response.

"I think he likes you," Colin panted. "You are amazing. That was... I'm going to sound like an idiot, but that was the most incredible thing anyone has ever done to me."

"I'm a 'guy trick' ninja," Ian said softly, kissing the tip of Colin's cock again.

"Can I hold you?" Colin asked suddenly. "Would that be all right?"

Ian considered him with an inscrutable look in his dark, liquid eyes before sliding up his body and entwining himself around Colin. He kissed him gently and put his head on his shoulder; Colin's arms wrapped around him tightly.

"If we could just stay like this for a while, I'd appreciate it," Colin said softly, his voice shaking.

So they did stay like that, for over an hour, murmuring softly to one another. They spoke of where they'd grown up, where they'd gone to school, and their families. They talked about their favorite foods, and Colin discovered that Ian liked to cook. He also found out that Ian had a pet sheep when he grew up.

"If you tell Fergus, I'll kill you," Ian said severely.

Colin sighed. "I don't imagine I'll see him again," he said.

It wasn't long after that Ian twisted around on the bed and showed off his cocksucking skills again, bringing Colin's dick fully erect. He touched it gently with his fingers, with a kind of reverence before twisting around to retrieve a few things from his pants.

He proceeded to show Colin his final trick for that night, sliding a condom down that big cock and then lowering his ass upon it. Colin's body had finally been satiated enough that he could go slowly, and he learned the delights of fucking a man as beautiful as Ian. It was certainly different than with women, and he found he liked the hard muscles, the scrape of stubble, and the scent of sweat. And he loved the tight grasp of being fully sheathed inside the other man. He loved watching Ian above him, impaling himself over and over with the naked lust glowing in his narrowed eyes, and his body rippling with need. He loved to watch Ian reach his pinnacle, the proof of his pleasure raining down upon him.

They slept fitfully, neither used to the heat of having their limbs entwined with someone else, and they awoke at dawn and fucked a final time. Ian rode Colin's cock again while Colin lay on his back and watched him. He was breathtaking, with his head thrown back and the cords in his throat pulsing with life.

They showered together in the bathroom down the hall, Colin using his leg to get there, and then taking it right back off to stand in the shower, leaning against the wall beneath the warm spray and warmer hands. It only took Colin about five minutes to pack up his things while Ian sat in the center of the bed and watched him. They traded phone numbers and addresses, and then they walked solemnly down the stairs, not even holding hands like they had the night before; Colin held his suitcase in one and his other needed the rail for balance.

Out on the street they looked bleakly at one another before Colin leaned forward and pulled Ian into a hug. And then he was getting in a cab and telling the driver to go to the airport; his taxi door slammed closed and Ian was gone, just an image on the street with his hand slightly raised.

Colin no longer felt the disquiet that had been haunting him for the past months. As he looked out the taxi window at the cold, wet morning, he could once again picture a future for himself that included love and companionship. He knew now that it was possible; that he could be loved as he was. He turned his mind to what waited him at home: the bills, the empty apartment, the job search.

And scotch. He would buy a bottle of scotch at the airport to take home with him. He vowed silently to have a dram every night, a promise to himself to not forget what he had learned.

• I appreciate hearing from people who are reading my stories. Send me an email and let me know what you think. Your feedback is the only way I know you're reading and whether or not it makes sense to continue.

I have other stories, too. Look up Seth Kirkcauldy in the author's section.

seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net