Date: Fri, 25 May 2012 13:01:03 -0400
From: Morris Henderson <bigmoh@post.com>
Subject: Ecstasy,_Agony_Bliss

AGONY, ECSTASY, BLISS

 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.

 <><><><><>

 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.

 <><><><><>

 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.