NOTE: The principle characters in this story first appeared in an earlier story, Joy in Cairo.  There are occasional references to that story but it isn’t essential to have read it before this one.

Chapter One: THE AGONY OF UNCERTAINTY

I was delighted to see a letter from Abdul in my mailbox when I got home from work.  We had become pen pals over the four years since I met him in Cairo, exchanging letters every month or so.  Upon entering my apartment, I discarded the junk mail and set aside a couple of bills to be handled later.  I was eager to learn what was happening in his life and immediately opened his letter.

With a remarkable improvement in English vocabulary and grammar, Abdul included only news of his family, his job in the The President Hotel where I stayed while in the Egyptian capital, and periodic repetitions of his strong desire to visit the United States.  Neither of us had ever written about our intimacy during my business trip to Cairo in the early 1970s.  That’s not the sort of thing you put on paper that might be seen by homophobic bigots.  The time we spent together was a delightful mixture of ecstasy and bliss.  Initially, I was tempted to thank him again for the joy he gave me in my hotel room but he said nothing about it.  It seemed clear that it didn’t mean as much to him as it did to me.  I was left to conclude that his sexual favors were nothing more than a way to supplement his earnings.  Although he never asked for nor mentioned payment, he had accepted my money with only weak objections.  The satisfaction he gave me was infinitely greater than a little bit of cash.

The content of the letter was not the expected update on his job and family but was a total surprise.  He had saved enough money for a plane ticket to the U.S.  I found that hard to believe ... unless he had supplemented what had to be meager earnings in the hotel by “entertaining” the occasional guest as he had done for me.  Moreover, he would not come as a tourist.  He had made friends with an employee of the embassy in Cairo who would arrange for him to receive a green card.  That meant he could stay in the country and work almost indefinitely IF ... a very big IF ...

He needed a U.S. citizen to sponsor him in order to get final approval of the work permit and asked if I would be his sponsor.  The next line of his letter was an even bigger surprise:  “I met many Americans who stayed at the hotel but you are the only one I really like.”  I read that line over several times and couldn’t help but speculate.  Was there a deeper meaning when he said he liked me best?  What was the nature of his relationship with the other men?  Did he share a bed with any of them as he had done with me?  Was he intimate with hotel guests from other countries?  How many?  My speculation continued as I reflected on his request.  Why, for example, would he be offered a green card since he had no special knowledge or skills?  Was the embassy employee returning a favor?  Had Abdul’s skills in bed earned him special consideration?  The most perplexing questions, however, were what would be expected of me as his sponsor and could I hope for a special, ongoing relationship with a young man whom I admired for his ambition, for his charming personality, and, of course, for his magnificent body?  But, I cautioned myself, he might be straight but shared his spectacular body with me (and how many others?) only in the hope of earning something in return—cash or manipulating the bureaucracy to secure a work permit.  My memories of our conversations during my brief stay in Cairo were dim.  I did recall admitting to be gay but could not summon up any comment from him that would suggest he was also gay.  If he wasn’t gay, he played the part very well; his performance in bed was flawless.

For three days I pondered his request and researched the responsibilities of a sponsor before I reached a decision.  “Yes,” I wrote back.  “I would be happy to be your sponsor.”  The next part of my letter to him was carefully worded: “And you can stay with me until you find your own apartment.  Or you may stay at my apartment for as long as you like.  I have a second bedroom that is empty but I can put furniture in it if you want a separate room and decide to accept my offer.”  He was a very bright young man and I was certain that he would interpret my phrasing to mean he had the option of sharing my bedroom ... with all that implied.  If he chose to sleep in my bed, it would enhance my hope—a faint hope, to be sure—of renewing the bliss that I had so thoroughly enjoyed with him years ago in a faraway land.

I should tell you that—for career and family reasons—I’ve lived a celibate, straight life.  My only gay experience was with an effervescent young lad in a country far from home where I felt confident enough to indulge my yearnings with little or no chance of anyone learning my sexual preferences.  Since those few days with Abdul, I’ve recalled the joy frequently.  The sex, of course, was a pure delight but even when he was escorting me on a tour of Cairo, I felt a strong attraction to his sunny personality, his amiable nature, and his remarkable initiative.  I knew nothing about his formal education but it had taken very little time to recognize his intelligence and wisdom.  Indeed, he would be a credit to his remarkable ancestors—Pharos, Priests, architects, and engineers—in that ancient metropolis known as al-Qahira.  My affection for him has not diminished.  I carry his photo in my wallet.  When I see men and my attention is drawn to their good looks or charming personality, I often compare them to my memories of Abdul.  Inevitably, they don’t measure up to the standard of the personable Egyptian who frequently dominates my fantasies.  Yes, my infatuation is chronic and nearly obsessive.

Within a week, I received a reply to my letter in which I agreed to be his sponsor.  The exuberance in his letter was obvious.  He was profuse in his gratitude for helping him achieve a life-long dream of coming to the States.  His eager anticipation, it seemed, matched my own.  I had been consciously suppressing my hopes of renewing our erotic coupling by reminding myself that there was no firm evidence of his being gay or, for that matter, his attraction to me as a continuing sexual partner.  However, my hopes were kindled anew when I read, “Don’t worry about buying furniture.  I can sleep in your bedroom with you.  If you are sure you don’t mind.”

Mind?  Quite the opposite.  I was deliriously happy!

I endured two very long months of waiting.  I became impatient with the paperwork I had to complete and multiple interviews with a mousy bureaucrat from the Immigration and Naturalization Service.  But thoughts of seeing Abdul again and—I allowed myself to hope—sharing our bodies in carnal union sustained me.  Eventually, I was approved as a sponsor and immediately wrote to Abdul with the good news.

When I didn’t receive a return letter three weeks later, I began to worry that something had gone wrong on his end.  Were my hopes of a reunion nothing but an impossible dream?  I was two steps away from depression when a letter arrived that lifted my spirits.  My friend would finally be allowed to travel here and would be living with me.  There had been problems with the paper work at the embassy in Cairo that had taken a while to resolve. 

My elation was tempered by a lingering doubt that nagged at me.  I still didn’t know whether Abdul was gay nor could I be sure that he would regard me as a suitable partner.  If neither of those were true, it would be torture to have him constantly in my home but unable to enjoy his companionship fully.  I agreed to sponsor him out of a desire to help a deserving young man and, of course, in the hope that it would lead to the kind of companionship that I had denied myself for much too long.  But the uncertainty of any lasting intimacy became increasingly troublesome.  To understand the intensity of the conflict that raged in my mind, you have to understand that my left brain (rational thinking) is the controlling master of my mind.  It constantly dominates my right brain (emotions and creativity).  As a consequence, I’m comfortable working with things ... where cause and effect can be precisely predicted but I am completely befuddled when dealing with people in situations where random variations yield unexpected results.  To put that in more practical terms, I excel at solving problems with technology when at work I’m but totally bewildered in social situations.  The quirks of human nature defy logical analysis.  I was—at the time in which the events of this story occurred—what a future generation would call a nerd or a geek.  Inevitably, I would stumble and fail in any attempt to achieve the companionship I fervently desired.  None of which is to say that I lacked a desire for human companionship, an emotional bond with someone (a man), or physical intimacy that would symbolize that bond and also gratify my sexual needs.

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I was a nervous wreck waiting outside the customs area of Washington Dulles International Airport.  Scores of travelers exited the area but Abdul was not among them.  I had memorized the flight number and arrival time but reached into my pocket for the note I had made with the pertinent information.  I was not mistaken: Flight 703 from Paris, due in at six twenty.  It was now half past seven.  I checked the display of arrivals for the umpteenth time.  The flight had landed on time.  But where was the young man who had captured my heart?  The stream of weary passengers dwindled to a trickle and my eager anticipation turned to worried panic.  Did he miss the connecting flight from Paris?  Was he being detained for some obscure reason?  Would my expectations of a reunion with an extremely bright and admirably handsome young man be dashed?

Ten minutes later, I saw him come through the doorway into the waiting room.  I almost didn’t recognize him.  He had matured in four years from a trim, firm, boyish teen into a MAN with muscles that were obvious under his tee shirt.  He carried a large suitcase with effortless ease.  The shoulder straps of the backpack (that was obviously stuffed full but worn with ease) framed the distinct outline of his impressive chest.  He wore loose denim trousers that revealed nothing and I wondered whether that magnificent cock had matured and grown along with the rest of him.  I momentarily struggled to breathe, awe-struck at his manly beauty.

He scanned the few people still waiting for passengers.  The sparkle in his dark eyes and the broad grin when he saw me confirmed his identity.  (Did they also testify that he was as glad to see me as I was to see him?)  I ran to him and embraced him in a tight embrace.  I hadn’t planned on doing that.  In fact, I had warned myself against any show of affection in such a public place.  I feared he and onlookers would misinterpret ... no ... correctly interpret my secret feelings for another man.  But the joy of seeing him again overwhelmed my judgment and irresistibly controlled my actions.  To my great relief, he neither stiffened nor withdrew from my bear hug but returned it.  We held each other closely—for perhaps too long—until I reluctantly released my hold on him and said, “Welcome to the United States.”

His grin broadened and he replied, “I’m very happy to see you again.  This is the day I’ve dreamed about since we first met.”

My spirits soared even higher upon hearing those words.  He had dreamed about seeing me and was very happy.  Later, as we walked to my car in the parking lot, I realized that I may have heard only what I wanted to hear.  “Happy to see you” and dreaming about it were not necessarily parts of the same thought.  His may have been referring to his dream of coming to the States; it was not evidence of any affection for me.

The twenty-minute drive along the Dulles Greenway from the airport to my apartment in Leesburg passed quickly because our conversation was nonstop.  Abdul apologized for the delay in clearing customs.  His passport showed his first name as Abdullah-Majid but the work permit had the common form, Abdul.  “Abdullah is a Muslim name,” he explained, “even though my mother is a Coptic Christian.  She wanted to please my father who was Muslim.  He was killed in the Army.  I think I told you that.”

That answered a question that occurred to me after leaving Cairo: why was he not circumcised since Muslim babies always are?  But I yielded to discretion and didn’t mention my envy of his being uncut.  During the rest of the trip, Abdul made frequent comments about how lush and green was the landscape, how modern and clean was everything he saw, and how it surpassed his already favorable ideas of what America was like.  I didn’t say so but I recalled how drab and grey everything in Cairo seemed to be when I was there.  At no time did either of us mention the private time we enjoyed together four years ago.  In fact, his exuberance overcame the lusty thoughts that had dominated my mind since I learned of his coming although I guardedly entertained the possibility of renewing our sexual activities.  A parallel thought was fear that what he did for me in Cairo was done for money.  I usually repressed that thought because I couldn’t bring myself to believe that he was a houri boy, boy whore.

I parked the car in my assigned space when we arrived at my apartment complex.  He seemed to be awed at the modern building and the surrounding landscaping.  “You live here?  You must be very rich.” He remarked.

“Not really,” I replied.  “But I have a good job and not much to spend my money on.”

He collected his suitcase and backpack.  I offered to help carry his things in but he declined.  It was at that point that my attention returned to how strikingly handsome he was.  The fluid, easy grace with which he handled what had to be heavy luggage took my breath away.  I directed him toward the stairway to my second-floor apartment.  I paused at the bottom of the stairs to say, “Turn right at the top of the stairs.” I made sure to stand behind him because I wanted to follow him and admire his backside as he climbed the stairs.  The sight fueled my lust—lust that I realized I would have to keep in check because I didn’t know for sure that he was gay.  Nor did I want to alienate him with any comment or action that would offend him if he were straight.

Upon entering my apartment, I led him to my bedroom where I said, “You wrote that you wouldn’t mind sharing my bedroom so I’ve made space in the closet for your clothes.  The bottom two drawers in the chest over there are empty for your other things.”

He looked at me momentarily with an expression I couldn’t interpret.  (I’ve already admitted that my people skills are severely deficient.) 

Then the unexpected happened.  He dropped his luggage, wrapped his arms around me, and said, “That’s one of the things I like about you, Roger.  You’re so kind and thoughtful.  I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.”

The hug at the airport was a common ritual of greeting a friend.  This hug, however, seemed to convey a different meaning.  Could it be?  Might he actually like me as more than a friend who has done him a favor?  Was there a chance that he felt some measure of affection for me?  And would that lead to attaining what I craved?  I wanted to bed him on the spot but my rational brain wouldn’t let me do that.  It would be far too abrupt.  It would be much too risky if he was not gay.  I would have to await further, undeniable evidence that he would be willing to repeat what I had enjoyed years ago in Cairo.

I said, “I haven’t had dinner.  Are you hungry?”

He hesitated before saying, “I ate on the plane.  But it wasn’t much.”

“You unpack your things, then, while I fix us some dinner.”

Very soon after the meal, he said, “I would like to stay and talk, Roger, but the time difference between Cairo and here and being awake since six in the morning in Cairo ... well ... if you don’t mind I would like to take a shower and go to bed.”

“I understand and don’t mind at all,” I replied.  “Beginning right now, you should consider this your home and feel free to do what you want.  The bathroom is at the end of the hall.  There’s plenty of soap, shampoo, and towels.”

As I heard the shower running, I couldn’t help but visualize that magnificent body standing under the warm water cascading across his muscular chest and streaming off his cock.  My lust raced toward its peak.  I sprouted a raging hardon.  All my attempts to control my urge to make this the night—the night I had so eagerly anticipated—were overcome by the possibility that I could attain what I longed for but had denied myself.  It was a long time until my normal bedtime but my desires ruled my reasoning.  I would take a quick shower after Abdul was finished and join him in bed.  There, I hoped, fate would smile on us both.

I hurried through my shower.  My groin was stirring in anticipation.  I almost sprang a boner thinking of who was in my bed and what might ... MIGHT ...  happen.   I was more than saddened when I returned to the bedroom and found Abdul apparently sound asleep.  I carefully slipped into bed beside him.  He did not stir.  His slow breathing of deep slumber confirmed that he was very soundly asleep.  It was a crushing disappointment.  And it was overwhelmingly frustrating to be alongside him after all these years and after weeks of looking forward to the possibility of intensely erotic acts of carnal gratification.

I lay awake for a long time, submerged in a flood of self-pity.  And of regret for having the excessive pride to think that Abdul felt any affection for me.  I convinced myself that he discouraged me from furnishing the spare room not so he could share my bed—and our bodies—but merely considered the expense he thought I couldn’t afford.

Chapter Two: ECSTASY AND BLISS

I usually awake on weekday mornings to the noxious blare of my alarm clock.  On weekends, I sleep in and gradually let the cobwebs in my mind dissipate.  That first morning after Abdul arrived, a Saturday, I was slowly gathering my senses when a voice startled me.  “Good morning, Roger.”  I was confused but only for a moment.  In a flash, I opened my eyes to see the sparkling smile of the young man who would be living with me.  “I’m sorry if I scared you,” he said as his smile disappeared.

“Not scared,” I replied.  “Just surprised.  I’m not used to somebody in my bed.”  I quickly added, “And I’m glad it’s you.”

His smile returned.  “I’m very happy to be here.  In the United States.  And with you.”  He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down on me.  His smile faded as he said, “I’m not happy about last night.  I’m sorry.  I wanted to show you how much I appreciate your kindness.  But I fell asleep.  That was not nice of me.”

I couldn’t be sure of his meaning but the implication of two things he said sparked my hope.  He was happy to be with me.  Could that mean he liked me more than others he had probably entertained?  He wanted to show me his appreciation.  Not TELL me but SHOW me.  Could that mean sex?

“Don’t worry about it,” I assured him.  “I know it was a very long trip and with the time difference I understand how tired you must have been.”

“That’s one of the things I like you for,” he cooed.  “You’re understanding and forgiving.”  He lay back down, this time pressed up against me with his head on my shoulder and an arm draped across my torso.  His elbow was somewhere near my navel and his hand began to tease my left nipple.  “Can I make up for my rudeness last night?”

All my doubts vanished.  It was now clear that the young man I adored was as eager as I was to have sex.  It was as if threatening storm clouds were suddenly replaced by a brilliantly blue sky, replacing the doom of continual frustration with the promise of euphoric intimacy.  My reply came out spontaneously from the uninhibited depths of my psyche, “I’d like that very much.” 

He gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek.  I felt him almost imperceptibly press his body more tightly to mine.  He laid his right leg across my legs.  His hand crept slowly downward.  It jumbled my mind.   My fears were instantly demolished.  My craving for intimacy was about to be fulfilled.  Arousal radiated from my crotch to every part of my body.  By the time his hand reached the waist band of my boxers, my cock was moments away from full erection.  He slowly slipped his hand under the fabric of my underwear.  He dallied by running his fingers through my pubic hair.  The anticipation of final contact overwhelmed my senses.  When he finally touched the tip of my cock, I gasped.

“Is it okay?  What I’m doing?” he asked.

All I could manage to say was, “It’s wonderful!  Don’t stop!”

He probably grinned at the satisfaction he was bestowing on me but I didn’t notice because the entirety of my reality was comprised only of the extraordinarily erotic sensations that pulsed throughout my being, accentuated by the anticipation of even greater satisfactions that lay ahead.  I don’t even remember his throwing the covers back and removing my boxers but the slight chill of air across my body made me aware that I lay there completely naked and available to receive whatever he chose to do for me.

He gently stroked the inside of my thighs with gentle upward movements but he stopped short of my testicles.  By this time, I was beginning to writhe, eager for the attention that my throbbing cock was demanding.  He fondled my balls, driving me deeper into erotic euphoria.  I felt his warm, moist tongue licking from the base of my cock toward the tip.  He told me later that I was moaning loudly but if I were, it was beyond my consciousness.  I fervently wished for the feeling to last but was simultaneously impatient for the climactic release of the intense need for orgasm.

Finally, his lips encircled my cock and his skilled tongue teased the hypersensitive helmet on my penis.  If ever there was such a thing as agony and ecstasy, this was it.  All my conscious, rational senses were flat lined but my primal sensations of impending orgasm were redlining.  My only thoughts—if you can overestimate what they were—focused exclusively on the desperate need to ejaculate.  Instinctively, I began to buck my hips in an attempt to drive my man shaft as deep as possible into the throat of the young man who was giving me extreme pleasure but had—however effectively—brought me only to the point of begging for relief.

The bomb detonated.  Multiple blasts of semen erupted from my cock and propelled me into an even higher orbit of ecstasy.  I heard myself scream.  I can’t be sure but I think I blacked out momentarily.  When next I was vaguely aware of my surroundings, I was weak, on the brink of paralysis.  Abdul was lapping up the residual cum that oozed out of my cock.  He moved up to cuddle beside me and gave me a tender kiss on the cheek.  Without conscious thought, I wrapped my arms around him, drew him to me, and gave him a passionate (perhaps too forceful) kiss on the mouth.  Our tongues seemed to entangle.  I vaguely recall the taste of my cum as we exchanged saliva.

Breaking the kiss to breathe, he lay beside me ... more precisely, halfway on top of me.  His arm and a leg made bare skin contact with my chest and thighs.

As soon as my post-orgasmic high diminished I whispered into his ear, “I love you Abdul.”  I hadn’t planned on saying that.  I had decided earlier that expressing love would be premature before we got to know each other quite well.  But what I said was true.  He was, in my eyes, perfect in every way: personable, considerate, ambitious, self-reliant, and, of course, the owner of an extremely attractive body.

“Thank you, Roger.  I like you very much, too.  I’ve thought of you often since we met in Cairo.  I’ve looked forward to being with you again.  Now my dream has come true.”

He said ‘like’ and not ‘love’ but I was willing to accept that since it was in the context of ‘looking forward to being with you’.

Without asking permission, I began to show my love by kissing him tenderly and massaging his admirable chest with my hands and tongue.  Moving downward, I noticed that he was also naked.  Whether he slept that way or stripped off his underwear while I was otherwise distracted, I didn’t know and didn’t care.  All that mattered to me at the moment was full access to his magnificent body.  He had been a teen when we met four years ago, very mature for his age, but was now a fully grown man and significantly more handsome.  Exploring the contours of his firm body was sheer delight—but not enough to keep my eyes and hands from wandering downward.  As I had imagined, his jet black pubic hair was profuse and hid the base of a still impressively long and thick cock.  Abandoning my intent to prolong the foreplay, I wrapped my hand around his manhood and took great delight in watching the foreskin slide up and down, alternately revealing and hiding the bulbous head it protected.  As his cock engorged, however, the foreskin retracted, unable to stretch enough to fully confine the perfectly rounded tip of the shaft.

Eager lust was now in control of my actions.  I wrapped my lips around the firm rod.  The taste was, not surprisingly, infinitely more sensual than in my fantasies.  I could manage to get only half of it into my mouth but even that much was more than I had dared to hope for.  With one hand on the base and my mouth engulfing the rest, I rhythmically stroked.  While wanting my...OUR...pleasure to last I was driven to bring him to climax and consume his seed.  Whether it was because of his self-control or my inept performance, I got both.  It seemed like a long time before he exclaimed, “Gotta shoot!”

Volleys of hot cream blasted against my throat forcing me to swallow quickly so I wouldn’t lose a drop of the precious offering.  While one’s first taste of semen may seem salty or even bitter and therefore unpleasant, I was accustomed to my own.  It paled, however, when compared to Abdul’s that was a delightful blend of sweet and tart.

We cuddled together with arms and legs intertwined for most of the next hour.  We spoke very little but I felt the bond between us was solidifying and could easily blossom into a committed relationship.

Over brunch (It was almost noon when we got out of bed.) our conversation was more active.  I felt the rapport was sufficient to ask a personal question.  “I envy you, Abdul, because you’re not circumcised.  I thought all Arabs were circumcised.”

He laughed.  “I told you that my mother is a Coptic Christian and my father was a Muslim.  That meant there was a lot of compromise in their marriage.  I leaned only a short time ago about one of those compromises.  Before I was born, my father insisted on an Arabic name.  Abdul-Majid means Servant of the Glorious One.  My mother conceded but insisted that there would be no Khatna or ritual circumcision because it was mutilation of the body that God created.”  He laughed again and said, “I can imagine the negotiation that they went through about that.  “She felt strongly that the partial circumcision of Arab girls was particularly barbaric and circumcision of boys was no less uncivilized.  Usually, it’s the poor Muslim parents who have baby boys circumcised.  The upper classes do it to their sons when they are at least seven years old.  It’s to symbolize leaving childhood behind and is an occasion for celebration.  I’ve talked to some boys who endured that ritual as young teens.  They accepted the tradition but admitted that it was a very unpleasant experience.  Having an Arabic name doesn’t bother me but I’m glad my mother left my penis alone.  I’m told it improves the feelings when you have sex.”

“There’s something else that improves the feelings,” I replied.  “It’s having a partner who is as skilled as you are.”

I can’t be sure but I think he blushed at my compliment.

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We lounged about through the afternoon, talking about a wide range of things and getting to know each other better.  After supper, Abdul said, “I know it’s not late but I wonder if you’d like to go to bed early tonight.”

I knew from the wicked smirk on his face that it wasn’t more sleep he wanted.  “That’s a marvelous idea,” I grinned.  “I’d like nothing better.”

For more than two hours, we repeated what we had done that morning but with two significant differences.  First, we indulged in prolonged and immensely erotic foreplay.  We were both fully erect but neither of us felt an urgent need to ejaculate.  There wasn’t an inch of his superb body that I didn’t explore or that didn’t spark my admiration.  The young teen that awed me years ago was now the embodiment of masculine virility.  The high regard I had for his firm, trim body then (even though it may have been enhanced in my memories) was now akin to worship.  The second difference surprised me.  As we cuddled tightly after extremely satisfying orgasms I was in a state that can only be described as bliss.  Simply being together, naked and close, suffused me with a contentment that, although not at all like the extreme pleasure of orgasm, was equally pleasurable.  Perhaps greater.  The dominant component of orgasm and even being stroked with hand or mouth to stimulate a climax is purely physical but the overwhelming feeling of quietly cuddling is primarily emotional—and therefore more deeply satisfying.  There’s the ecstasy of orgasm and the bliss of spiritual bonding.  The sex act is rewarding but transitory.  When it reinforces the contentment of a lasting connection, it’s even more precious.  I wondered whether Abdul felt the same way.

Chapter Three: ENDURING DEVOTION

I had arranged a job for Abdul.  Several weeks earlier I had done a favor for the owner of the restaurant on the ground floor of the office building where I worked.  I was eating supper after work in the restaurant, which I did fairly frequently since I hated to go home to an empty apartment and heat up a tasteless frozen meal in the microwave.  The owner approached me and was frantic because his computer system had crashed.  Servers’ orders were not sent to the kitchen.  Patrons’ bills could not be printed.  Nor could he record their payments.  Everything had to be done by hand, which was slow and error-prone.   Could I fix his computer?  In less than thirty minutes I had repaired his computer enough to limp along until closing.  After the restaurant closed at ten that night I came back and spent five hours diagnosing, repairing, and installing new software.  He offered to pay me for my time but I declined by saying, “No need for that.  Consider it a favor to a friend.”  I had no thoughts of a return favor and had forgotten about it until Abdul arrived and expressed his deep concern about finding a job.

“I’ve taken care of that,” I said.  “You’ve got a job in a restaurant where I work if you want it.  It won’t be a glamorous job but it will give you some spending money and satisfy the government bureaucrats if they inquire about your employment status as a guest worker.”

He was delighted, gave me a hug, and asked, “Why are you so nice to me?”

“Simple,” I said.  “Because I like you.  I admire you.  And it makes me feel good to help you.” 

Over the weeks and months following Abdul’s arrival, our sex life was frequent and always euphoric.

More significantly, our personalities were complimentary.  His spontaneity and gregariousness was infectious and I became more comfortable in social situations.  I was inept at first but his being at my side somehow tamed the butterflies in my gut and gave me the confidence I needed to meet new people and carry on a conversation with them.  With his influence, I broke out of my nerd shell.  It was among the great gifts Abdul gave me.  The boundaries of my world expanded, making my life fuller and richer with satisfactions I didn’t even know I was missing.

My penchant for logical analysis guided his insatiable thirst for learning new things—not the least of which were U.S. geography, culture, and history.  I was recurrently amazed at his curiosity that was exceeded only by his ability to absorb and retain information.

My affection for him continued to grow.  I was extremely pleased that he expressed the same feelings for me.  Within four months, we had developed what I was sure to be a commitment to each other.  We were snuggled together one Sunday morning after a particularly amorous period of loving sex when I asked, “Abdul, would you do the great honor of living with me forever as life partners?”

He looked at me quizzically.  I began to regret my question, thinking he was not ready for such an obligation and I had rushed things too much.  “What does that mean?” he asked.  It was a question I had heard from him often when he didn’t understand something and wanted to know more.  Consequently, my fears vanished.

“It’s like when a man and a woman get married.  They promise to love, honor, and cherish each other.  We’re gay and can’t get married but we can live as partners.”

“I know what love means,” he replied.  “And cherish.  But what does honor mean.”

It was the innocent probing that he had done countless times when he didn’t fully understand but wanted to.  “It means to support each other in sickness and health, to respect differences of opinion without arguing, and to be true to one another.  Before you ask, being true means being monogamous—with no intimate contact with another person.”

He suddenly looked worried.  “But I have been with other men.  Many men.  Just as I was with you in Cairo.  And women, too.  Does that mean I’m not true to you?”

“No,” I assured him.  “The past is history.  What you may have done before doesn’t matter.  It’s the future that is important.  If you’re willing to commit to a life partnership, it will make me the happiest man alive.  I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”

“You’ve already done that, Roger.  You made me happy in Cairo.  You made me happy by helping me come to the U.S.  You make me VERY happy when we are together in bed.  So my choices are...”  I could tell he was using the analytical skills that he learned from me.  “...I can refuse or I can agree.  If I refuse, I will disappoint the man I love and risk losing him.  That’s unacceptable.  You mean too much to me.  So I agree.  Not just to make you happy but to make ME happy also.  I am honored to be your partner.  That’s part of my answer.  Here’s the rest.”  He gave me a long, very passionate kiss.

<><><><><> 

As I expected, Abdul impressed the restaurant owner by learning quickly, working tirelessly, and becoming a good friend of the entire staff.  He progressed in less than four years from washing dishes to kitchen helper to assistant chef—a phenomenally rapid series of promotions that was no surprise to me but his coworkers thought it was astonishing ... and deserved.  When the chef resigned to work in an upscale restaurant in Washington, D.C., Abdul was the obvious successor.

Having accepted our committed relationship and discussed thoroughly the possible consequences of making it known, we decided to be honest.  If asked, we would tell the truth but we would not broadcast the news.  Word got around.  The reactions of our colleagues were, for the most part, surprisingly positive.  Still, there were a few bigots who disapproved.  I lost a few friends (not that I had many anyway) but I also learned who my true friends were.  The biggest surprise came from my parents who were retired and living in Virginia Beach.  I had planned to visit them to help celebrate their fiftieth anniversary and I asked Abdul to accompany me.  I introduced him as my “friend” and it wasn’t long before they recognized his keen intellect, admirable demeanor, and excellent character.  As I expected they immediately liked him.  Before returning home, I broke the news.  I was prepared for tears and recrimination but their reactions were better than I had dared to hope for.  They were disappointed that I was gay but not angry or distraught.  But they both said that as long as I was gay, it was good to have a partner as charming as Abdul.

Abdul loved his job but his initiative and ambition compelled him to do more.  With persuasive negotiation he won admission to a local college and completed his degree, majoring in Hospitality Management.  Concurrently, he studied for and passed the examination to become a citizen of the United States.  We celebrated his new status with a two week summer vacation, touring from Colorado to California.

Our devotion to each other has grown with each passing year.  As a young man, I was in agony, wanting the experience of being with another man.  But I couldn’t imagine the intensity of the ecstasy and bliss of showing genuine affection intimately.  Now, as a middle-aged man, I can’t imagine life without Abdul.  My devotion to him is boundless.

The end.

NOTE:  My profound thanks to Iatia for his valuable suggestions, his expert editing, and his treasured friendship.