“Chance Encounters
 of the
Close Kind”

© 2010 by Anel Viz. All rights reserved.

 

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

 

 11.  Delayed

They both secretly counted on sleeping in that double bed together.  One never knows for certain, not until it happens.  One may occasionally pick up telltale signs.  For example, they had automatically lapsed into the familiar tu after a few short, non-committal sentences, natural enough for two men in their late twenties or early thirties who’d be sharing a room.  Also, both tossed their bags onto the same bed as if the other was for sleeping, but that might change after they’d unpacked.  One does not take chances even in these enlightened times.  Moreover, this was Africa, ruthlessly homophobic and fiercely proud of it.  The fear they’d sensed in chance encounters at a bar or disco had left its mark, and they exercised more caution than they would at home, although a European was unlikely to freak out and bring the police bursting into the room.

They hadn’t even noticed each other in the crowded airport lounge where they’d waited over five hours to board the plane home “in just a few more minutes”.  Then came the announcement of “mechanical difficulties”, that they would have to wait till it was repaired.  They watched the plane roll away from the gate, onto the runway, and take off with all their bags on board.  What the...?  That much weight it could handle, but not the passengers.  The charter company had no ground crew or mechanics of its own, so they flew the plane to Tel Aviv, where it could be seen to right away?

They were stranded at the airport for two days, then, maybe three, unless they forfeited their ticket and purchased another flight out, an expensive proposition requiring a detour through London.  Unlike the Africans, they could not return to town.  They’d already passed through emigration; their visas were no longer valid.  The company would provide double rooms at the airport hotel, meals at the restaurant, and a small toilet kit for those who needed it.  The lucky ones had thought to pack a change of clothes in their carry-on.

They’d found themselves side by side in the press to get a room key, and one said in the language of the country, “Voulez-vous?” not because he thought the man might be gay, but because he was handsome, of about the same age, and looked friendly.  The other nodded, they grabbed a key, and went to stand in the packed shuttle that would take them to the hotel.

“C’est pas marrant,” the man said, his first words.  The other, though not French, spoke the language well enough to recognize the distinctive nasal of working-class Lyon.  It surprised him, for the man was meticulously groomed.  But that could have been for the flight.

They introduced themselves and shook hands: Claude, Thierry.

They were hustled off to supper before they could go to their rooms.  Thierry’s overnight bag had scarcely hit the bed when he said, “On boit un coup?”  They took turns washing up, leaving the bathroom door open – they only splashed water on their faces – and headed down to the bar.

There were no empty tables.  Thierry went up to one with two empty places next to two young women, one in her mid-twenties, the other just a girl, eighteen at most, maybe younger.

“Vous permettez?”

The older woman’s eyes lit up, and she motioned them to sit.  She came on to both of them before fixing her sights on Thierry.  He might have just been playing along, but the girl thought he was sincerely interested, and panicked at the prospect that Claude would end up sleeping in her room.  When the innuendos became explicit, she grabbed her key and fled from the bar.

“You’d better go after her for the key, or Claude will have no place to sleep,” Thierry said.

“Oh, she’ll let him in.”

“You think so?”

She was about to suggest a threesome, but thought better of it and followed her companion.

“Let’s get out of here,” Thierry said.  “I’m not up for that after five hours of cooling my heels in the airport.  Are you?”

A questioning smile, the glint of a glance.  Very likely.  The luck of the draw?

Back in their room, they reached hesitantly for the other’s shirt buttons, kissed, pressed up against each other, felt their hardness, undid the other’s belt.

“I need a shower,” Claude said.  They slipped out of their clothes and liked what they saw.

Thierry waited for him to finish before hopping in the shower.  He came back with a handful of condoms fished out of his toilet case and held one up to his friend, who lay stretched out on the bed, his penis engorged.  He nodded.

Thierry kissed his way down his chest and belly to his groin, then began licking delicately.  Claude moaned and arched his back, tightening his buttocks around the warm pleasure inside him. Thierry touched his tongue to the sweetness dripping from the tip, then closed his mouth over the shaft.  Claude wished it would go on forever.

It almost did.  At length Thierry lifted his legs and eased into him, withdrew part way, pushed in further, slowly, faster, then with wild abandon.  Claude thrashed about beneath him, whimpered, mouthed broken words of ecstasy, clawed at his back.

It lasted only a few minutes.  Thierry felt Claude’s ring tighten around him and a small vibration against the head of his member as the seed spurted up and landed on his chest.  He leaned forward to lick it.  Claude heard Thierry’s grunt and felt him swell inside him and the sudden throbbing of ejaculation that inevitably followed.

Thierry collapsed on top of him.  Time stopped; he lay there panting.  The crumpled sheets hung halfway off the bed.

“Now me,” he whispered.  “I want to ride your dick.”

Claude nuzzled up against his neck and murmured, “Not now.  Next.”

 

Posted: 02/19/10