Date: Mon, 17 Jan 2005 01:26:21 EST
From: PixaJax@aol.com
Subject: Desperately Seeking Selim Part 3

Wym and I staggered into the conference room next morning and slumped
down in our chairs. The Chairman, our French host,  was already in his
place. He looked at us quizzically.
"You two gentlemen look as if you spent a long time tasting the delights
of Marseilles last night, n'est-ce pas? The food, the wine, the ladies?"
It was Wym who came to the rescue.
"Is it so obvious? Well, let us say that we are refreshed and ready to
pursue distance learning with renewed vigour!"
"You do not look refreshed, if I may say so. But, how can I reproach you
young men far from home, far from your wives. And these Mediterranean
women are so very very, what shall we say?, succulent!"
"Indeed," replied Wym smiling. "Succulent."
I remained silent. I could never have lied convincingly about what we had
really done for most of the night. I could feel again the tip of a clever
pink tongue sliding up and down the underside of my swollen erection,
wetly tracing the channel through which my manseed would pump. I relived
the moment when he giggled, then raised up and slid his boyish lips over
my glans to taste the nectar of my precum oozing into his mouth. My
beautiful arab boy - I called him Selim, of course - was an artist. It
was so sensual, the action of his lips and tongue on my penis, that I was
afraid I might cum too quickly. But my wicked little artist was too
clever to allow that to happen. As I recalled how it felt, and how I felt
at this first contact with a boy, the old familiar tingling started in my
groin. I forced myself to suppress these wild erotic thoughts and
prepared myself for a morning of utter frustration.
Wym had been as good as his word. After a light meal and some good
Provencal wine, he led me through narrow streets which I seemed to
recognise from the French Connection, to a squat domed building from
which the pink paintwork was peeling badly. Above the door I made out the
word HAMAM in faded lettering.
"What place is this, Wym? God, it's not a boy brothel, is it? I would
never......."
"Relax, my friend, it is a hamam, a Turkish bath. It will do us good to
clean the dust and sweat of this hot summer night from our pores."
"Oh."
He heard the disappointment in my voice.
"Wait and see."
So I waited. And saw. I suppose I ought to say that the sight of a
steam-filled room crowded with men, naked except for a few who modestly
draped a towel over their laps, excited me, aroused me, made my cock
engorge. Not a bit of it. I felt a kind of relief that I was not turned
on by all these dark hairy Mediterranean types. Despite my lust for a
beautiful arab boy, I confirmed to myself that I was not homosexual, not
gay. Eventually, after we had been steamed to a state of total sterility,
we retired to one of the anterooms where comfortable couches beckoned, a
place to relax and snooze until we were ready to go home. I closed my
eyes.
"Chay, effendi'm?"
Holidays in Antalya had given me enough Turkish to recognise the words.
"Tea, sir?"
I opened my eyes, and there was my Selim. Just as I imagined him: liquid
brown eyes, a generous mouth, smooth hairless chest, and skin
silky-smooth and of a pale golden hue that is indescribably beautiful.
"Erm......," his sudden appearance and his beauty had caught me off
balance, "erm, yes er oui. Erm, evet."
I was confused. Why should I bother to use the Turkish evet for yes,
surely the French oui was enough?
"Hemen, effendi'm." (Right away, sir)
He had several small tulip-shaped glasses on a tray which hung from his
arm by a handle. He poured tea into a glass and bent forward to allow me
to take it from the tray. As his face came close to mine, our eyes met.
And held their gaze for a moment longer than they should have. He smiled
and said softly in accented English:
"Please let me know me when you are ready for me, sir."
"Ready for you?"
"He briefly put his hand into his crotch and cupped his genitals through
the white cloth of his loose arab trousers. The gesture was so fleeting
that I could easily have missed it, but its meaning was unmistakeable. My
heart began to pound.
"Just press the little bell there, sir," he said, pointing to a bellpush
on the wall behind me. And then he was gone.
The moment of truth. I fell back on my couch and tried to get control of
the maelstrom of thoughts that racked my mind. The moment of truth.
Wasn't that an expression from bullfighting? The moment when the matador
gives the coup de grace to the bull by driving his sword between the
animal's horns. The way I had, in my dream, driven my hard cock between
my arab boylover's buttocks. Driving it home, stabbing him, impaling him.
The moment of truth.
"Well?"
It was Wym, reclining on his couch on the other side of the room.
"Well what?"
"Do you find him pretty? Is he your Selim?"
I swallowed hard. The incredible spasms in my groin threw me into a
panic.
"Wym, I'm sorry. I can't go through with it. Sex with a boy. No way."
To my surprise, Wym did not contradict me.
"Sure, Jack, I understand. Marital sex may be boring, but at least it's
comfortable and safe. No walk on the wild side for you, eh?"
Was he mocking me?
"No."
"Fine. But, listen, my little Issa will be here shortly, so I hope you
won't mind if I take advantage of this precious moment."
"Issa?"
"It's the name of my pretty boy. It is the Arabic for Jesus. Isn't that
cute? I know him from a previous visit."
"Oh, sure. That's fine by me. Do you want me to, er, leave you?"
"Not at all. Just relax here. It's much too early to go back to the
hotel, anyway. The night is young, as you English say."
I settled back. Frankly, although I had chickened out, I was curious to
see Wym making love to his Issa.
"A question, Jack. Tell me honestly, do you find your Selim attractive?"
"Oh god yesssssssssss!" And I blushed.
"Good. Ah, excuse me now, but here comes my dear Issa with my glass of
tea. And maybe something delicious to eat."

Were you ever, dear reader, a witness to the lovemaking between a
handsome man and a beautiful boy? I want to describe it to you in detail.
I want to tell you about every caress, every kiss, every sweet movement
of hands and fingers and lips, every passionate sigh, every long moan of
ecstasy. I want to make you feel everything I felt as I watched my Dutch
companion suck and be sucked, fuck and be fucked. I want you to see the
writhing bodies, the beads of sweat, the precum spraying, the long hard
strokes, the juddering climaxes, the manseed oozing, the sweet afterglow.
I want you get as aroused as I did, feel your cock engorging into a
straining erection, run your hands along its length, seeing the veins
stand out, experience the unbelievable tingling of a thousand nerve
endings in the zone just behind the ridge of your glans. I want to tell
you all of this. But I am not going to.

Instead, what I will tell you is that at a certain point, I reached
behind me and pressed my fingertip against the bellpush....

[Comments to pixajax@aol.com]